


The Winter Stallion

by fancyh



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Abuse, Animal Transformation, Captain America Big Bang 2019 | cabigbang, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prince Steve Rogers, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-22 11:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21301316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancyh/pseuds/fancyh
Summary: Prince Steven Rogers and Knight James “Bucky” Barnes of Mar-vell have been inseparable all their lives. But when a mission against the warring kingdom of Hydra goes wrong, Bucky is thought dead, leaving Steve to his grief. Two years later, Steve has almost succeeded in ridding the land of Hydra, and in the final battle finds himself coming face to face with their infamous warhorse - known only as the Winter Stallion. There is something familiar in his eyes, something that begs for help, and after freeing him from Hydra he decides to save him, beginning the long journey of winning his trust. The Winter Stallion is wild and fearful from abuse and more intelligent than any horse he’s ever met, but as their relationship flourishes Steve is unaware of the dark secret that lays beneath – a curse that turned man into beast. For the Winter Stallion, who remembers nothing of his past, it will take the kindness of humans to mend his heart, but much more to unearth his true identity. For maybe, just maybe, Steve isn’t such a stranger after all.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 157
Kudos: 321
Collections: Captain America Big Bang 2019 | cabigbang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dividers are from[OpenClipart-Vectors](https://pixabay.com/users/OpenClipart-Vectors-30363/?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=1300015) from [Pixabay](https://pixabay.com/?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=1300015)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So thankful for my two wonderful artists, [LiquidLightz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiquidLightz) and [MsPooslie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsPooslie), for being amazing cheerleaders and collaborators in addition to being incredible artists. Be sure to check out their art masterposts [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21343024) and [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21324355)  
Big thank you to my beta, [ShinyNewPenny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinyNewPenny,) for catching all my mistakes and helping to smooth out all the rough edges of this fic.  
Lastly, thank you to the mods and organizers of this year's Bang for making it such an amazing experience.
> 
> This fic was inspired by my own experiences with horses and horse training, as well as the litany of horse books and movies I consumed as a little girl. For the fic that first launched the concept of a horse transformation Stucky AU (that I know of), check out  
[On A Pale Horse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9656900) by [leveragehunters(monkeygreen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters)
> 
> With that said, happy reading!

_Banner by MsPooslie, original sketch by fancyh_

* * *

#  **Prologue**

His knees hit the ground hard, jarring with impact, and he bites down on a curse. Blood trickles from his temple where a blade grazed him, another shallow cut along his ribs. He raises his chin and glares up at his captors, the movement echoed along the line of Mar-vell prisoners kneeling in the dirt. Hydra soldiers stand guard in front of them, gauntlets resting on sword hilts and black cloaks fluttering in the gentle breeze that sweeps across the blood-stained earth, the tentacled emblem of Hydra emblazoned in red on their chests. 

Two men approach, one short and one tall. The shorter man trails behind the other, spectacles perched on a small nose and round face beaded with sweat, an ugly grey robe belted around his waist. His eyes skitter up and down the row of prisoners with an unnerving glint, resting on each one momentarily before flicking away.

_ Zola, _Bucky thinks with a surge of recognition. The mage they had come to find, to capture. The failure sits bitter on his tongue.

The taller man carries an air of authority, armor gleaming in the hot summer sun and black cloak dark with dye. Wheat-colored hair sweeps across his forehead, sharp blue eyes glittering with intelligence and lips curved in a cruel smile. He stops in front of the prisoners, a hand falling to rest on the engraved pommel of his sword, and Bucky grits his teeth, hatred bubbling in his chest.

The man smiles wider, and Bucky realizes he is not just a man. He is Alexander Pierce, first knight of Hydra and ruthless murderer. He is everything Shield fights against – tyranny, corruption, injustice – and he has just won.

James Barnes, knight of Mar-vell, is going to die. Although, in the end, he finds that it does not matter, because even if he is going to die, at least Steve is safe.

He tilts his chin up and looks Pierce straight in the eye. 

Pierce meets his gaze, and smiles. “Him.”

Zola moves forwards. As one, the Hydra soldiers draw their swords. There’s a moment of stillness, time suspended, and then twenty blades flash through the air in deadly arcs.

“No–!”

Blood spatters on trampled earth. Zola stretches out a hand, and there is only darkness.

* * *

* * *

He wakes to voices. A twitch of his limbs tells him he is unbound, and he cracks open his eyes, blinking up at a blue sky. 

“It is finished?”

“Yes, Sir Pierce.”

“Good. Let me talk to him first.” Footsteps scuff the ground, stopping mere hands-breadths away. “I know you’re awake.”

Bucky rolls over, pushing himself to his feet in one smooth motion. Alexander Pierce stares at him calmly, blue eyes twinkling in amusement. A glance around reveals a circle of black ash surrounding him, runes carved into the soil. Zola watches from the edge of the circle like a vulture eyeing its meal. Bucky swallows, and thinks of red blood on brown earth, the sound of steel cutting through flesh. His patrol is dead, and yet he still lives. He’s not sure he wants to know why.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks anyway, searching for a way out. But he’s surrounded by Hydra, alone, and there’s no point in running. They’d only catch him. 

“Remaking you,” Pierce answers, shifting on the outside of the circle. “Don’t worry, you won’t remember a thing. And you won’t be alone. There’s plenty more like you in our ranks.”

“Plenty more _ what?” _

“Horses.”

Bucky blinks. _ What? _

“I should explain.” Pierce would almost sound apologetic, were it not for the gleam in his eyes that tells Bucky he relishes this, enjoys tormenting him with his words. “You see, regular horses are just that. Regular. _ Dull. _Constantly needing direction. But a human soul in a horse...well, what better weapon is there?”

And suddenly Bucky understands. It is legend that Hydra can speak to their horses. Their horses fight on their own, with naught but words from their riders, vicious as any Hydra soldier. Training, he’d always assumed. He’d thought the legend was merely a myth, but it is far worse. Far worse, indeed. 

“I’ll _ never _serve you,” he spits. 

Pierce gives another smile, cold and dangerous. “You will not have a choice. Besides, you won’t remember a thing. And the only way to break the curse....is to remember who you are.” 

He allows enough time for the horror to sink in before he nods to Zola. “Begin.”

Zola raises a hand, mouth curving around the incantation. Bucky swallows and stands straighter, meeting Pierce’s eyes. 

He takes a breath. “Long live the–” 


	2. Chapter 2

#  **Part I**

** **

###  _Two years later_

Prince Steven Grant Rogers of Mar-vell tightens his hold on his sword, shield a reassuring weight on his left arm. In the distance, hoofbeats sound, matching the beating of the drums that echo across the land, and the black standards of Hydra come into view, sunlight glinting off gleaming armor as a horn sounds, warbling into the air.

The drums stop.

Steve’s trusty mare Eagle paws the ground but stays still, waiting for his command. Steve takes a breath and raises his sword above his head.

“For the love of Mar-vell!” he shouts.

_ For Bucky, _he thinks.

He nudges Eagle with his calves and she leaps forward as a cacophony of hoofbeats follow, battle cries filling the air. Across the plain, Hydra charges, lances tipped forwards and swords held aloft, horses galloping in perfect regiments. A breath passes, two, and then the armies collide.

Steve’s sword whistles through the air, cutting through mail and slicing open flesh, the sounds of battle all around him. He steers Eagle with his legs as he ducks and slashes, screams ringing in his ears and the scent of blood thick in his nose. A quick glance shows Mar-vell’s army overpowering Hydra’s, punching through their front line with ruthless efficiency. 

Eagle skitters to the side and Steve raises his circular shield on instinct, barely blocking a blow from a mace. His attacker slumps in the saddle and Steve looks over his shoulder to see a familiar form drop his arm, blade coated with blood. 

Sam Wilson, loyal knight and close friend, nods to him and wheels his horse Redwing, falling back into the battle. Steve spots several other of his knights nearby, Natasha’s horse Widow a blur as she darts in and around enemy soldiers, her red hair spilling from under her helmet. A few well-aimed arrows from Clint take down those around her. 

The battle drags on, a blur of flashing swords and spilt blood, Steve’s blade dripping with crimson. Slowly but surely, Mar-vell drives back Hydra, and Steve fights with renewed determination. It is a fight as old as the land itself, a fight against tyranny and greed and cruelty; it is a war that has been raging for years while Steve trained and fought and prepared to lead his people. A war that has taken so much from him.

A ripple goes through the armies and Steve feels a chill in the air, several screams cutting short as his gaze is drawn to the thick of battle. Soldiers and horses litter the ground and blood spreads in pools, slippery and thick. A Mar-vell horse falls, whinnying in pain, the soldier crushed underneath it. A shining blade catches the light. A soldier falls from his horse, dead before he hits the ground. A hoof strikes the earth.

The figure that emerges from the battle is one of nightmare, every step slow and measured, steel-shod hooves ringing against the ground. Plates of armor shift on the horse’s chest, a sharp metal horn protruding from the steel traversing the length of its forehead. Dark nostrils flare, neck arched and reins taut, a jutting silver bit angled backwards. Two grey ears lay flat against its head, its vicious stare seeming to penetrate Steve across the battlefield. 

Silver steel flashes. A scream. Blood drips onto the plates. 

The knight sitting on the horse is impenetrable behind silver armor, every stroke of his blade purposeful, efficient. His eyes find Steve’s across the battlefield, and he smiles. 

Steve shivers.****

_ The Winter Stallion. _It’s what they call Alexander Pierce’s warhorse, in hushed whispers around crackling fires and in the dark of night, hands tight on sword hilts. Unbeatable, they say. Unnatural. Still as death itself and twice as vicious. A coat like snow on coals. No one has ever wounded Pierce when he rides the stallion; it is impossible. 

Hooves echo in Steve’s ears. Pierce is still advancing across the battlefield, stallion moving as if with a mind of its own. A knight comes up from behind but the stallion whirls, and Pierce strikes. A horse draws near and the stallion lashes out with a steel-shod hoof, splintering bone. It lowers its head; drives the armored spike into a mare’s neck. Blood spurts, painting the stallion’s face red, dripping off shining metal and mixing with the foam around its mouth. It runs down its leg and coats its side in rivulets of crimson until it looks as a figure of nightmare. 

Soon it has crossed the plain, the battle dying around them as they regard each other. Eagle is panting but still steady underneath Steve, ears flicking back and forth rapidly and sweat staining her shoulders. Steve hefts his shield and nudges her to circle Pierce and the stallion, arm aching. 

“Prince Steven,” Pierce acknowledges. 

“Sir Pierce.”

“You know, the last time I saw you, you were just a babe. You take after your mother.”

“I’ve been told.” This close, Steve can see the vivid blue of the stallion’s eyes, wide and rolling. 

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen her.”

Steve grits his teeth. “Yeah, since you betrayed Mar-vell and killed my father.”

Pierce chuckles. “Yes. But Mar-vell is weak, young Prince. Your mother is too soft to rule, and so are you. Only Hydra can give this land the freedom it deserves.”

“It isn’t freedom, it’s fear,” Steve spits back. 

“Maybe so. But in the end, we’ll win. And sadly, my dear Prince, you will not live to see it–”

Steve throws his shield up just in time, blocking Pierce’s swing. He parries, nudging with his legs to wheel Eagle as the stallion lunges forwards. They dance around each other, trading blows, the stallion’s horn grazing Steve’s sword arm and making him cry out. Blood drips from the wound, mingling with that of others, and Steve turns Eagle to go on the defensive, arm burning.

The stallion rams into Eagle, sending the smaller mare staggering. The metal plates grind against Steve’s leg, horn just barely missing him as Eagle regains her feet and retreats. She’s shaking, breaths coming in pants, and though she’s well-trained and has been with him for years Steve can feel her reluctance in every line of her body, the hesitation before she obeys the squeezing of his calves. 

He feels guilt for making her fight when she doesn’t understand, can’t understand; he’s actively hurting her, putting her in Pierce’s path, but there’s nothing for it. He uses no spurs, no whips. If she truly wanted to run, she could. He trusts her, and she trusts him. He has to win.

He blocks Pierce’s next swing with the shield and thrusts with his sword, but the stallion swerves away, Steve’s blade missing Pierce by a hairsbreadth. The stallion crashes into Eagle again and this time Steve lashes out with his sword, cutting through the reins on one side. Pierce had been holding the reins so tightly in one hand that Steve catches the slight lurch as the tension breaks and throws his shield arm out, hitting Pierce square in the chest.

Pierce tips backwards, hand tugging on the one remaining rein and pulling the stallion’s head around abruptly, causing the horse to stumble. Steve presses Eagle closer, and swings his sword towards the stallion, carving a shallow cut across his bare flank. 

The stallion’s head whips up, muscles bunching, and Pierce fists a hand in the base of his mane, steadying himself. 

“Attack!” he orders, and the stallion whirls, two thousand pounds of fury bearing down on Steve and Eagle. Eagle balks momentarily at the sheer onslaught, just long enough for the stallion to crash into them, armored head hitting Steve in the chest and twisting, shoving him from the saddle. 

He hits the ground hard, rolling as silver hooves lash out, drumming against the ground. He still has his shield and sword and as he stands he sees Eagle too far away, unlikely to come to him with the stallion still attacking. The stallion faces him, the whites of its eyes showing and foam and blood dripping from its mouth, the severed rein hanging from its bridle.

It charges. Steve stays firm, sweat trickling down the back of his neck. At the last moment, when silver-tipped hooves reach for him, he twists out of the way, shield up as his sword flicks through the remaining rein and he ducks under Pierce’s swing.

The stallion slides to a halt and turns, both reins hanging free. 

There’s a moment of silence as the stallion stares at Steve, the plates shifting with every heaving breath. Pierce looks angered, one hand gripping the front of the saddle and the other twirling his sword, hair soaked with sweat. The stallion’s crazed eyes dart around the battlefield. It has quieted, the last Hydra soldiers falling to Mar-vell’s blades. 

“Attack,” Pierce grits out, spur-clad heels digging into the stallion’s sides. Steve tenses, muscles screaming in agony. 

The stallion shifts, and its head jerks up, ears pinned back. 

“Winter!” Pierce barks. He lifts the sword, and Steve watches in horror as he brings it down on the stallion’s flank. The stallion charges forwards with a whinny of pain, head high and spooked, back hollowed beneath Pierce. He thunders towards Steve, a bloody spectre in armor, only to slide to a stop in front of him, sending Pierce sailing over his head. Steve stands frozen, the stallion mere feet away, and their eyes lock. 

Steve sees pain in the eerie blue depths, sees agony and madness and fear; but more than that there is something familiar about them that pierces his heart. 

He hears a scrape of metal and turns to see Pierce climb to his feet with difficulty, expression black as he stares at the stallion.

“You useless animal! Attack him!”

The stallion flinches backwards, and then his ears press more firmly to his head, eyes going wide and dangerous, and he lunges. The wind ruffles Steve’s hair as he passes, Pierce’s face draining of blood. There’s a crack and a scream, cut short. The pounding of hooves into flesh. And then stillness.

The stallion is standing over Pierce’s crumpled body, sides heaving and muscles quivering under layers of armor. Steve edges forwards and the stallion spooks, skittering backwards and watching Steve with wary eyes. Steve forces down his fear, knowing the stallion could very well kill him next.

“Hey. It’s alright.” Steve carefully sets down his shield and sheaths his sword, hands raised in front of him. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

Hydra charger or not, the stallion is a horse, and horses don’t choose sides. The cut from Pierce’s sword is still bleeding, as is the one from Steve‘s. Judging by the way the stallion attacked Pierce, Steve would say he had no love for the man. 

The stallion’s ears flicker but he stays still, trembling with fear and exhaustion. Steve is only feet away now, keeping his movements slow and voice soothing.

“I’m sorry, big guy. You probably didn’t want to fight, huh? I’m sorry I hurt you. I won’t anymore, I promise. No one will hurt you anymore.”

His hand brushes the end of a severed rein and he curls his fingers around it. The stallion half-rears, head twitching up, and Steve lets his hand go with the motion, keeping the rein slack. The stallion shivers and exhales as he drops back down to earth, head drooping slightly with exhaustion. 

“You saved my life,” Steve murmurs. “Thank you.”

_Scene art by [MsPooslie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21324355) (click on link for AO3 art post)_

* * *

* * *

“Hydra is in full retreat.” Sam crosses his arms, eyeing the stallion standing behind Steve with trepidation. “Seriously, Steve, you’re keeping that thing?”

“Well, he killed Pierce,” Steve says with a shrug. “I owe him.”

“Your funeral.” Sam shakes his head, looking around the ravaged battlefield. The last of the wounded are in the healer’s tent, the dead being collected to be returned to their families or buried here, and the sun is sinking low over the horizon, painting the field in shades of crimson. 

“Can you get someone to take care of Eagle?” Steve asks. “I’ll have my hands full with this one.”

Sam nods. “Natasha already collected her when you got knocked off. She’ll take care of her.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

“Uh-huh. _ My lord.” _Sam gives him a quick smile, handing over a rope, a bucket of water, and a cloth. “For your new demon horse.”

“He’s not a demon.”

“Whatever you say, your highness.”

Steve chuckles, leading the stallion towards a quiet spot away from the battlefield. The stallion follows as far behind as he can on the severed rein, radiating exhaustion and walking stiffly, blood drying on his armor. They reach their destination in mere minutes and Steve sets the bucket down and inches as close as he can to the stallion, trying to thread the rope through the bridle. 

The stallion jerks backwards, head flying up and out of Steve’s reach.

“Easy. It’s alright. I just want to put this on. Then I can take all this stuff off and clean you up.”

The stallion snorts, ears pinned back. Steve sighs. 

“Alright. Don’t run away, please.”

He drops the rope, stepping closer, and the stallion lets him, one blue eye watching him warily as he starts on the chest plates. He unbuckles the straps holding them in place and eases them off, dropping them to the ground with a soft clank as his injured arm twinges in pain. On the stallion’s left shoulder is a brand in the shape of a star, marring the dappled coat. It’s the insignia of Mar-vell, not Hydra, and Steve frowns in confusion because they don’t brand their horses – and never have.

He pushes down his curiosity and moves on, running his eyes over the stallion’s exposed hide. The whirls of white look like snowflakes against the ashy background, sweat making a dark patch across the stallion’s chest and shoulders. Thin scars cover his shoulders and trail up his neck, crossing over his chest in vicious stripes.

The neck plates come off easily, revealing a messy black mane, strands wiry but softer than expected beneath Steve’s fingers. The plates over the hindquarters are heavy, revealing more whip scars too numerous to count. When he finally goes to reach for the faceplate the stallion flinches, jerking his head away as the whites of his eyes show.

“I’m sorry,” Steve coaxes, murmuring low and soft. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to take this armor off. It must be uncomfortable.”

The stallion shivers, head dropping again, and Steve sets a hand on his neck, slowly moving it upwards. When his hand gets to its ears, the stallion shivers again but stays still, and Steve unbuckles the bloodied faceplate and lets it drop. 

Without the dangerous spike and metal plate, the stallion’s face is soft and beautiful. A straight, narrow nose, hair white and soft; dark, flared nostrils, deep blue eyes framed by long eyelashes. The bridle still wraps around his face, black leather straps cutting into sensitive skin, and Steve feels a surge of anger as he studies the wickedly curved bit extending from the stallion’s mouth, a chain wrapped tight under his chin. They would _ never _use this kind of bit in Mar-vell, its use banned. The foam dripping from it is bloody, the corners of the stallion’s lip torn, and Steve throws caution to the wind and starts unbuckling the bridle. 

He slides it off the stallion’s ears and gently eases the bit from his mouth, tossing the vile thing behind him without care. The stallion works his mouth and miraculously doesn’t run, standing completely unrestrained. Now Steve can see the raw patch across his nose from the strap of the bridle, the white hair rubbed away and skin broken and bleeding over old scars.

Steve gathers his anger and shoves it down, taking a deep breath. It’s no use to him now, and the stallion needs him. Hoping exhaustion will keep the stallion’s feet planted he moves to his side, undoing the saddle and sliding it off with difficulty, the scrape on his arm making itself known with a vicious throb. A closer look at the stallion’s bloodied coat reveals not only blood from others, as he thought, but deep cuts from spurs raked along his side, layered on top of older scars. 

He circles to the other side, seeing mirrored wounds, and inspects the cuts he and Pierce had left on the stallion’s flank. They’re shallow, and bound to heal well, but the stallion is still covered in blood and dust and sweat. Taking out the rag Sam had given him, Steve dips it in the water bucket, soaking it through. He starts to carefully clean the wounds, stopping whenever the stallion flinches and side steps away, an eye fixed on Steve at all times. He can feel him trembling under his hands, skin hot and damp from exertion and stress, but for all his wariness the stallion does not try to run.

Finally, the worst of the blood and sweat is wiped away, and Steve picks up the rope again, holding it out for him to sniff.

“I do have to put something on you,” he says apologetically, hoping his voice soothes the stallion. “I can’t just have you loose. But it won’t hurt.” He steps to the side, rubbing one end of the rope over the stallion’s neck as the stallion shivers and shifts nervously. “It’s alright.” 

He slides the rope over his withers, reaching under and grabbing the end to make a loop around his neck and knotting it securely. It’s not the best way to restrain a horse, but his head seems to be touchy and they don’t have time to work it out.

“Come on.” He clicks his tongue, taking a step, and the stallion follows.


	3. Chapter 3

[Winter shifts, cocking his back foot to take the strain off his injured haunch. The rope around his neck hangs slack, tied to a tree, and there’s rustling as the other horses shift and move. The night is quiet, broken only by the voices of soldiers around the fires and in their tents, celebrating their victory and mourning their fallen comrades. Winter does not care for the affairs of humans, and has only ever known pain at their hands. From the first moment he can remember, there had been pain.

Maybe he should have been more like the others, meek and compliant from the start, but there is something in his blood that burns with righteous fury, something that has always hated Pierce’s glinting eyes and sickly smile. In the end, though, even he had given in. Whips and spurs and binds had broken his spirit, caged it; turned his burning rage outwards towards the enemy. He’d carried Pierce into battle, knowing what would befall him should he fail to protect him. 

He had tried to kill Pierce before, throwing him in the middle of the battle. But Hydra always won. Pierce always won, and there was always pain. Fighting back was hopeless.

Until now. Until Hydra had _ lost, _and a man with a shining shield had cut through the reins that restrained him. Pierce is dead, trampled under his own hooves, and now he belongs to new humans. They will be no different, he knows. They never are. 

Unbidden, he thinks of the knight’s gentle hands and soft voice, kind eyes meeting his own.

_ No. _He is no different. Just another human, who will take what he wants with pain when soft words do not work. This, Winter knows. He knows few things, but he knows the evil inside men’s hearts. 

Winter is not human. He may be smarter than normal horses, may be able to understand human speech, but he will never be human.

He doesn’t want to be.]

* * *

* * *

Steve wakes sore and tired. He grabs breakfast, gets his injuries re-bandaged by Erskine, their healer, and meets with his closest knights. Sam, Natasha, Clint, and Peggy all gather in his tent to discuss the plan after Hydra’s surrender, all of them focused on sustaining the victory they have worked so hard to achieve. 

After much discussion, they decide Steve and the majority of the army will head home while the knights drive the last Hydra stragglers out and secure the new territory. 

“What about your new horse?” Natasha asks, cocking her head to the side. “What are you going to do with him?”

“I’m not sure.” Steve purses his lips. “He’s skittish. Pierce definitely abused him. But he’s got great conformation and can obviously handle battle. I might try to train him if I can. Eagle is getting old.”

“Good luck with that,” Sam mutters. Peggy smacks his arm. 

Steve laughs and adjourns the meeting, spreading the word to the camp to pack up for the journey home. He slips towards where the knights’ horses are tied, the stallion’s grey coat shining in the early morning sun, his tree further from the others. _ Winter, _ he’d heard Pierce call him. _ The Winter Stallion. _He doesn’t want to keep the name. It’s a Hydra name, tied to their legend of the stallion. No, he needs a new name, one better suited to his new life.

Steve thinks, but nothing comes, so he tables the idea for later. He approaches the stallion, careful to make noise so he knows he’s approaching, and stays out of range of his hind legs, instead circling around to his head. He’s greeted by suspicious blue eyes under an unruly forelock. The stallion is beautiful, with crisp lines and a strong frame, tall and muscled but still agile. Steve wonders where Hydra got him from.

“Hey,” he says. “Good morning.” He glances around, taking in the empty feed sacks in front of the other horses but none in front of the stallion. He frowns. “Did you not get fed?”

The stallion eyes him distrustfully. Steve turns and spots the nearest squire, striding over. The boy spots him and bows, hands fluttering.

“My lord.”

“Did you feed the horses?”

“I did, my lord.”

“Why didn’t you feed him?” He points to the stallion. 

The boy blanches, biting his lip. “I’m sorry, my lord, it’s just...”

“What?”

“They was talking, and they said-they said he’ll kill you, and I didn’t want to die, my lord, I was gonna feed him, honest, but he saw me coming and _ looked _at me and-“

Steve sighs. “You were scared.”

The boy gulps and nods, looking down in shame. 

“It’s alright. Just fetch me fodder and water. I’ll do it.”

The boy nods hastily and jogs away, returning a moment later with a sack of grain and a wooden pail of water. Steve accepts them, thanking the boy, and makes his way back over to the stallion. The horse shifts nervously as he gets closer, drawing back to the end of his rope, and Steve sets the bucket of water down next to the tree he’s tied to, holding out the grain enticingly. 

The stallion sniffs, ears pricked, and takes a step forward. Steve shakes the sack slightly. The stallion jerks back, ears pinned.

“It’s just food. Come on.”

He wheedles and waits, but the stallion stays firmly planted at the end of his rope. Eventually Steve gives up and sets the open sack down, retreating a fair distance. The stallion approaches cautiously and then attacks the food ravenously, sticking his muzzle into the sack to get the last of the grain. He moves to the water bucket and drinks in long swallows, draining it, before backing away again and glaring balefully at Steve.

Steve sighs. This is going to be a long process.

* * *

* * *

He's packing up the last of his things when a loud neigh splits the air, shouts following soon after. Already guessing the culprit he rushes towards the trees, coming upon a startling scene.

The stallion is rearing, hooves striking at the men in front of him. The rope around his neck dangles freely, the lead snapped clean in half. The men dive out of the way of his hooves, one still holding a bridle, and Steve can guess what happened. 

"Whoa!" he shouts, getting in front of the men and holding up his hands. "Easy."

The stallion snorts and shies backwards, half-rearing as he tosses his head. 

"I know. It's alright." He speaks without turning to the men, "Anyone hurt?"

"No, sire."

"Good. Why were you bridling him in the first place?"

"We're supposed to get all the horses ready for the road. Didn't know he was crazy."

"He's not crazy," Steve says, voice firm. "He's scared. From now on, no one but me touches him, alright?"

"Yes, my lord." They sound only too happy to leave the stallion to him.

"Leave me."

He can almost hear their bows before they scramble away, leaving Steve alone with the stallion. The horse is still prancing anxiously, nose in the air and eyes blown wide, ears pinned threateningly. Definitely something about the head, Steve thinks. No way they're getting a bridle on him. 

"We've got to get home somehow," he laments. "If I can't put a bridle on you, I'll have to improvise." 

He edges closer, aiming for the broken rope trailing from the stallion's neck. The stallion backs away, ears flattening tighter against his head. Steve stops. The stallion stops.

He starts forward again, and the stallion backs away again. He stops. Sighs.

"Come on, pal. We gotta get home. You'll like it there, I promise. Wide open spaces, good food. No one hurting you anymore. But you have to get there first. Everyone else thinks I'm crazy for taking you, but I'm not just leaving you. You deserve a chance."

He holds out a hand, fingers curled loosely and palm down like he'd been taught since he was old enough to toddle up to the horses' stalls, and turns his head away. Closes his eyes.

A minute passes, then another. There's a sound, the whisper of hooves on the ground. Warm breath on his hand. Whiskers tickling the skin, velvety muzzle pushing against his knuckles. Steve opens his eyes, peering up with a smile. The stallion regards him curiously, and Steve stretches out his hand and ever so slowly grabs the rope.

The stallion stays still. Steve breathes out, smile widening.

"Thanks, pal," he murmurs. 

He spends a moment in the calmness before starting to walk, the stallion trailing behind him. The camp is packed up, Eagle already saddled and waiting, reins held in Natasha's hand. She raises an eyebrow at him, eyes dropping to the simple length of rope loose around the stallion's neck, but he simply shakes his head. 

Eagle eyes the stallion with justified trepidation, given their last encounter, but stays still as Steve vaults into the saddle, the stallion's lead clutched in his hand. The shortness draws the stallion up alongside Eagle, and Steve prays to all the gods that he won't attack, but he barely even acknowledges Eagle. He simply stands, ears swiveling to and fro and eyes tracking his surroundings.

"Huh," Natasha says.

Steve shrugs and clicks his tongue, nudging Eagle forward.

* * *

* * *

They reach Mar-vell near dusk, streaming in weary lines through the castle gates as the villagers gather and cheer. Steve eyes the stallion, concerned, but he only acknowledges the crowds with a flick of his ear, trudging calmly beside Eagle like he has been all day. He is well-trained, Steve supposes, just abused. If he can get over his fear of people, he'll make a great destrier.

Instead of handing his horses off to the stablemaster like he usually would, he takes the stallion to the stables himself, putting him in the empty stall next to Eagle and instructing no one to touch him. When he finally exits and reaches the castle gates he finds his mother there waiting for him, sweeping him into a hug that jars his healing scrapes and bruises.

"I'm glad you're home," Queen Sarah says, long hair tickling his cheek.

"As am I."

She pulls back, clear blue eyes and blonde hair a perfect match for his. She's shorter than him, slender limbs and pale skin reminiscent of Steve as a child, weak and sickly, before Mage Erskine healed him. Pierce, once his father's most trusted advisor, had killed the King when Steve was barely two summers, and so Steve has no memory of him. It is his mother who raised him, who kept the kingdom strong against the forces of Hydra. And now, finally, Hydra is near defeated, Pierce slain in front of Steve's eyes. He only regrets that he didn't deal the killing blow.

It feels almost unreal, that after all the years of suffering and bloodshed, there could finally be peace. _ Too late, _Steve thinks as his heart throbs with pain. Too late for Bucky, for the knights that followed him to their deaths. Nothing will bring them back.

"I'm proud of you," his mother says, face solemn. "I always knew you would do great things." She squeezes his hands in hers and steps back. "Now go clean up, and we'll have no more talk of battle until after supper."

Steve nods. "Yes, mother." He brushes past her and enters the castle, heading to his chambers and ordering for a bath. Servants chatter as they heat the water, congratulating him on the victory and relaying the latest castle business. They maintain decorum, but Steve and his mother have always stressed equality and encouraged their people to speak freely, doing away with pointless deference.

The servants pour steaming water into the tub as he strips off his clothes, sinking into the hot water with a groan. He feels his aching muscles relax, the pain of cuts and bruises fading away. He almost falls asleep but manages to scrub himself clean and get dressed, making his way down to the hall for supper. His mother is already seated, servants bustling around with food, and Steve slips into the seat opposite her, stomach rumbling in hunger. 

The food is mouthwateringly delicious, and Steve eats as fast as he can within the constraints of propriety, letting his mother's familiar voice wash over him. They don't talk about Hydra or the battle until all the food is cleared away, the servants dismissed to their own homes. 

"You knights," his mother says. "I'm told they're dealing with the last of Hydra?"

"Yes. And technically, they're your knights."

Sarah gives a wry smile. "I have no illusions, Steven. They're your knights, even if they're sworn to me. I'm glad. You'll need them when you become King."

"That won't be for a long time," Steve protests.

Sarah's eyes go serious. "You must always be prepared, my son. The future is unknown. And when the time comes, I know you will be a worthy King."

* * *

* * *

Steve sleeps like the dead that night, woken by light streaming through the gap in the heavy curtains. After sending for Bruce, the stable master and veterinarian, he goes down to the stable, giving Eagle one of the apples nicked from his breakfast and caressing her neck before checking on the stallion. The horse stands in the far corner of his stall, eyes fixed on Steve, though he's pleased to see someone had thrown hay over the door and filled the water bucket hanging on the inside. 

"Hey pal. How was your night?" Steve leans on the edge of the stall, studying the stallion. His coat is still grimy and the wounds certainly need tending, the bloody rakes along his sides visibly scabbed over. Now that he's in a stall, though, venturing in is dangerous. Steve is glad Sam isn't here to berate him for his stupidity as he takes a rope off Eagle's hook and opens the stall door. 

The stallion pins his ears threateningly and Steve comes no further, withdrawing the second apple from his jacket and holding it out. 

"I bet you want to get out of this stall. It sucks being cooped up, I know. I used to go stir-crazy as a kid, drove my mother wild. Once we get you all checked out, I can give you a nice rub-down and then turn you out to pasture. That sound good?"

The stallion's ears flicker and he takes a step forward, muscles coiled tightly. Another step, and another, and then he plucks the apple delicately out of Steve's hand, juice spilling over his lips as he crunches it between his teeth. Steve uncoils the rope, holding it in both hands before gently sliding it over the stallion's neck, low down. He seemed calm enough with it the day before, and they'll have time to work on haltering later. 

Steve clicks his tongue and the stallion follows him out of the stall, only hesitating halfway through before leaving in a clatter of hooves on the floor. Steve leads him until he's in the center of the aisle and then drops the rope, testing his theory that the stallion is trained to ground-tie like most horses. The stallion stays put, and Steve grins, selecting a brush and rag from the box along the side of the aisle. He lets the stallion sniff it before starting on his coat, brushing in short strokes with the direction of hair. The stallion only sidesteps and flinches a little before settling, body taut with tension.

Dirt emerges as he brushes, coming up in small puffs and lines that he wipes away with the rag. He traverses down his scarred neck and shoulder and to his back before moving downwards, towards the healing spur weals. He gets close to one and the stallion jolts, sidestepping away.

"Sorry. I know it hurts," Steve soothes. "I have to clean them out." 

He reaches out again and this time the stallion stays still, calming at Steve’s voice and letting him wet the rag from the water bucket and scrub around the gashes until he's satisfied. Steve then resumes his brushing, moving over his hindquarters, gentle over the whip scars that litter the skin. 

Someone had badly mistreated this horse, and for what? Horses in Mar-vell are near revered, and to earn one’s trust is a mark of good character. Horse training is about communication and trust and understanding, not violence and fear. Eagle has never let Steve down, carrying him faithfully into every battle, and there was no need for whips and spurs and cruel bits. 

Steve moves to the other side and repeats the process, the stallion's coat soon clean and shining and muscles losing their tension. Again Steve marvels at his beauty, the strangeness of his blue eyes – ones which make him think of another set of blue eyes, ones he will never see again – and the attentive way his ears flick to Steve's voice. He's obviously well-bred, and when not provoked possesses a surprisingly calm temperament. He stands untethered yet unmoving, and whatever else has been done to him he's well-trained and well-mannered. Hydra should never have gotten their hands on him.

When it comes time to clean his hooves, the stallion picks them up readily, standing on three legs as Steve uses the metal pick to remove dirt and stones from the sole. The rapidly coiling tension in the stallion’s body alerts him to Bruce’s arrival, and he sets down the stallion’s hoof as the short-statured man shuffles down the aisle and pokes at his spectacles to keep them on his nose, dark curls falling over his forehead. 

“Hullo,” he calls, slowing down as he approaches and eyeing the stallion, who looks ready to bolt. “I heard you have a new horse.”

“Yeah. This is…” Steve trails off. “Well, I don’t know what to call him yet. They called him Winter.”

Bruce frowns from where he’s stopped a few strides away. “The Winter Stallion? Surely it can’t be.”

The stallion snorts, backing up a pace.

Steve lets the rope hang slack in his hand, keeping his body language calm. “In the flesh. He’s been abused badly, though. And he caught a couple blades in battle.” _ One of them mine, _he doesn’t say. 

“Got it.” Bruce, though a nervous sort of man, is nonetheless calm when it comes to animals. He’s got a magic touch, able to soothe them easily. Steve has always been convinced that Bruce has some actual latent magic, woven into his words and touches, into the medicines he makes. Their horses never seem to fall ill, and their wounds always heal rapidly. Steve can only hope it works with the stallion. 

Bruce takes a careful step forwards, withdrawing a sugar cube and holding it out in the palm of his hand. The stallion shifts nervously, eyes full of distrust as Steve watches him.

“He let you touch him?” Bruce asks casually, voice pitched low and attention still fixed on the stallion. 

“Yeah,” Steve replies, just as softly. “Even let me clean out his wounds a little. But I can’t get near his head, and he’s pretty skittish.”

Bruce nods. “You gonna let me close?” he asks the stallion, voice soft and crooning. 

The stallion snorts, a hateful expression on his face, but he doesn’t try to run as Bruce draws closer, keeping up a soft flow of words. He gets close enough for the sugar cube to be lipped off his palm, and edges past Steve to place a careful hand on the stallion’s shoulder, eyes assessing the wounds. His lips tighten as his eyes trace the multitude of scars that cover the stallion’s hide, but his demeanor betrays nothing. 

“You did a good job cleaning these out,” he says, hand still splayed against the stallion’s shoulder. “I’ll just put some salve on them and they should heal up.” He pulls a small jar out of his pocket and dips his fingers into the pungent mixture, starting to spread it on the wounds. The stallion tenses but doesn’t move, and Steve releases a relieved breath.

When one side is done, he carefully moves to the other and smears the mixture onto the sword slashes and spur weals, fingers gentle. Steve can see him taking stock of the stallion, tracing his clean lines and looking for other injuries unobtrusively. 

“I want to feel his legs,” he murmurs, tucking the salve back into his pocket. “He’s got good conformation, but with this level of mistreatment he could be hiding other injuries.”

Steve nods, standing at the stallion’s head with the lead clutched in his hand loosely. “He was fine when I picked his feet.”

Bruce hums and runs his hands down the stallion’s legs, feeling for heat or soreness. Steve tries not to let his tension show, knowing one kick could shatter bones; could cripple or kill. 

The stallion picks up his feet for Bruce, ears relaxed yet alert, and Bruce prods the fleshy frog and runs a finger around the rim, studying the shoe. When he gets to his left foreleg he frowns, rubbing a finger over his pastern, right above the hoof.

“These looks like rope scars,” he says, voice threaded with anger. “Like they hobbled him. Tied his leg up, probably to a saddle.” He shakes his head, shoulders tight with tension. “If I got my hands on them…”

“Bruce,” Steve warns. The stallion’s ears are flat again, probably picking up on the tension.

Bruce takes a deep breath and sets the leg down, straightening up. “Sorry. I can’t believe anyone would do this.” He takes another breath and composes himself once more. “Alright. I’d like to get a look at his teeth, figure out his age, but I doubt he’d let that happen.”

The stallion glares at Bruce as if he understood him. “Yeah, probably not,” Steve agrees. “I was just going to turn him out after.”

Bruce nods. “That’s a good idea. He seems healthy, and the cuts should heal quickly. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks, Bruce.” Steve gathers the lead, clicking his tongue, and the stallion follows. 

They exit the stable into the sunshine, and the stallion walks obediently behind Steve as they follow the path to the pastures. 

Grass opens up before him, green and fresh, stretching on for over a league. He knows he cannot put the stallion in with the others, not yet, and leads him to a smaller pasture off to the side, still large enough for him to run and stretch his legs as every horse should. He opens the gate and leads the stallion inside, shutting it behind him before slipping the rope from around his neck. The stallion immediately turns away and Steve hops up to sit on the wooden fence, watching him explore his surroundings.

The stallion quickly makes a loop around the pasture before settling at the far side and putting his head down to crop grass, tail swishing. Steve's fingers itch for a quill and parchment to sketch the stallion's clean lines, to capture the way his tail lightens from black to white at the end. The sun climbs overhead, warming Steve through, and eventually he heads inside to attend to princely duties, telling himself he'll have time later. 

He writes a few reports, calculates grain stores, takes lunch, and sees his mother, who pesters him for information.

"I want to see this new horse you've told me so much about," she says, signing a piece of parchment. 

Steve leans against the table. "Whenever I manage to get him back to the stable. He's out to pasture now, I want him to come to me. I need time to train him."

Sarah nods. "Everything is peaceful right now. Take as much time as you need. I can manage."

"Thanks, ma." He bends to kiss her on the cheek. "You're going to love him."

"It sounds like you already do."

He rolls his eyes as he exits the hall, hurrying despite telling himself there's no rush. He rushes through the gates of the citadel, rounds the stable, and walks towards the pasture, seeing… 

Nothing. Steve's heart skips a beat. 

The pasture is empty, gate swinging open. 

Immediately he's running, flagging down the closest people.

"Have you seen a grey horse come past?"

They all shake their heads, and Steve grows frantic, staring out at the expanse of farmland. The stallion could be anywhere.

"Damnit!" He pinches the bridge of his nose, frustrated with himself. He didn’t anticipate the stallion being able to get out, somehow undoing the gate, and now he's surely lost forever. He won't come back; not like Mar-vell's horses, who love their home. 

Steve turns back around and to the stables, sending out riders on the off chance they can capture the stallion. Then he locks himself in his chambers and allows himself an hour to wallow in self-recrimination before moving on. The day drags with no word, and Steve lays away long into the night, mind filled with images of wide blue eyes.

* * *

* * *

It's early the next morning when word comes that the riders have found the stallion, and Steve runs to the pasture to see the stallion trudging between two horses with a disgruntled expression, their ropes around his neck. 

"Where do you want him?" the first rider calls.

"Round pen!" Steve calls back, gesturing to the circular pen made of wood, sides too tall for any horse to jump. The riders lead the stallion to the gate and in a complex series of moves let him in as they drop their ropes, slamming the gate behind him. 

The stallion loops around the pen, suddenly rearing and lashing at the wood with his forelegs before turning and kicking back with his hind, the wood shuddering on impact. 

"Found him in the woods," one rider says, wiping sweat from his brow and patting his horse. "Seemed mad as hell, but came quietly enough. 

"Thank you," Steve replies. 

"Of course, your highness. Let us know if we can be of assistance again."

Steve assures them he will and they set off towards the stable, leaving Steve alone with the stallion. He watches the stallion through the slat near the top, the rest of the wood layered thick and without spaces to prevent horses from getting a leg in between and breaking it. The stallion has finally ceased his attack on the boards and stands in the middle with sides heaving, head low and something resigned in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Steve says through the gap. 

The stallion snorts and backs into the far side of the pen, head turned away. Steve sees the trust he'd been building wash away and sighs, running a hand through his hair. It seems they are at square one again.


	4. Chapter 4

[He smells the man with the shield coming, hears his footsteps against the ground. There's the squeak of a latch and then the gate swings open a crack, just enough for a pale hand to slip a bucket of water through and toss hay beside it. The gate closes.

Winter waits until the man is gone before drinking, slaking his burning thirst. The ropes around his neck are still uncomfortably tight, digging in with every swallow, but there's no way to get them off. For once he envies humans their nimble hands, wishes he could rip the hated things off himself. 

He eats, but it's not enough to quell his hunger, the last grain he'd had the morning before. He shouldn't have tried to escape, shouldn't have thought he could get away. He knows better. He will never be free.

A little while later the man with the shield returns, holding a pail of grain. He sets it inside the pen, replaces the water, and then leaves. Winter eats.

The sun crawls across the sky. The man returns yet again, perching precariously on the top of the pen and dragging a quill across parchment in short, fine strokes. Despite himself, Winter is intrigued. But he stays on the opposite side of the pen, letting his mind drift as he is used to during long periods of captivity. At least here he can move, has food and water. When he'd tried to escape Hydra, they had not been so lenient.

The problem is, the water is located directly under the man's swinging foot. The midday sun beats down, making Winter thirsty, but still the man does not move. This must be the punishment, he thinks. As soon as he goes to the water, the man will hurt him. The water sits in front of him, taunting.

When he looks up, the man is no longer scribbling with the quill but staring at him, parchment nowhere in sight. 

"I won't hurt you," he says softly. "You have nothing to fear from me." The sun glints off the blonde hair that is swept away from his face, just long enough to curl a bit at the base of his neck, and his lips are slightly downturned amid a neatly cropped beard, the summer sky-blue eyes that had first captured Winter’s attention soft and sad.

He is a liar, Winter thinks. Pierce's voice had been deceptively soft too, blue eyes seemingly warm. He knows better than to trust the silken words of humans. 

Time passes. The sun arcs towards the horizon. The man leaves, only to come back with more grain and hay. This time he comes fully into the pen and latches the gate behind him, tossing the hay down but holding the pail of grain. 

"If you kill me, Sam will revive me just to kill me again," he says, a slight smile stretching across his face. "So for my sake, maybe don't." He sinks to the ground, legs crossed under him and grain set in front of him. He pulls out the parchment again, set on a slim piece of wood, and his quill, twirling it between his fingers. He notices Bucky watching curiously and says, "Erskine charmed this quill. Never runs out of ink or breaks. It's handy when you're away from home."

With a smile, he puts the quill to the parchment and begins to sketch, short lines becoming visible. Winter watches as the lines take shape, forming a horse. Him. The man is drawing him, he realizes. He takes a curious step closer, head cocked to see it. Shading emerges, his dappled coat coming to life. The man is completely ignoring him, hands smudged with ink, and Winter glances at the pail of grain sitting innocuously in front of him. Maybe he won't care? In any case, Winter could crush him to a pulp right now, no whips or ropes in sight to restrain him.

He edges forwards one step at a time, until the pail is right in front of him. Making sure the man isn't looking he drops his head, nosing at the grain before beginning to eat. The man doesn't seem to notice, continuing to sketch, and Winter finishes off the grain before stepping to the side and drinking from the bucket. Satisfied, he makes another loop around the pen, the confinement putting him on edge. He wishes he hadn't tried to run away, for then maybe the man would have left him in the grassy pasture, large and open and peaceful. 

He accidentally steps on one of the ropes hanging from his neck and trips, nearly panicking before he realizes the reason for the sudden constriction. He steps more carefully, keeping the ropes in his vision as he makes another half-loop around the pen, giving the man a wide berth. He wonders if the man will take them off eventually, or leave them on. He seems to be soft, more inclined to persuasion through reward than punishment, though it is only the beginning. Winter is bored and anxious and tired of the ropes, and with a lack of other options he comes to a stop in front of the man, stamping a hoof impatiently. 

The man looks up, raising an eyebrow. "Hello."

_ I hate you, _Winter thinks. He stamps a hoof again. The man's eyes drop to the ropes around his neck, and he bites down on a soft pink lip.

"I can take those off for you. You'll have to let me come close, though."

_ Just hurry up and do it, then, _Winter grumbles internally. Sometimes, he wishes he could speak back to the humans. 

The man stands slowly, wood and parchment and quill set on the ground. He approaches even slower, infuriatingly, and reaches for the first rope, fingers undoing the knot and sliding it from his neck. The second soon follows, and Winter can feel the rawness where they had bit into his skin. The man rubs a hand along his neck, under his mane, and Winter finds himself leaning into the sensation, the man’s fingers scratching an itchy spot he can't reach. 

"There we go," the man croons in his low voice. "This isn't so bad, is it?"

Winter snorts and pulls away before the human starts thinking he _ likes _being petted. The man doesn't chase after, just drops his hand, nodding agreeably. 

"Alright. That's enough progress for today. I'll be back bright and early tomorrow morning."

With that he throws the ropes over his shoulder, collects his sketchbook and quill, and slips out the gate, locking it securely behind him. Winter drops his head and dozes as darkness swallows up the land, falling into a deep sleep in the early hours of the morning.]

* * *

* * *

Emboldened by the progress the day before, Steve wakes early to visit the stallion, bringing water and grain and slipping inside the pen, cleaning it out under his watchful eye. The stallion eats and drinks with him there, slowly but surely building back the trust he'd lost. Steve spends the day sketching again, the stallion alternating between pacing anxiously and watching him, obviously hating the confinement; but until Steve can be assured he won't run, he can't afford to risk turning him out to pasture again. 

He repeats this routine for a few days, until the stallion stops tensing at his every movement. In his chambers at night, Steve takes the thin strands of rope he'd commissioned and fashions a halter, loose enough to not be constricting but tight enough not to slip off and allow the stallion to escape. 

As the stallion gets used to him, Steve gets closer until he makes contact, smoothing one hand down a soft shoulder. The stallion shivers and turns his head to watch Steve, regarding him with an intelligent gaze. 

“Hi there,” Steve says softly. He reaches out to offer his hand for the stallion’s inspection and the stallion jerks back, ears flattening dangerously. 

“Sorry,” Steve says, and retreats to try again the next day.

Soon he is touching the stallion more and more each day, running hands over his neck and shoulders and inching further towards his head every time. 

The stallion always shies away when he gets close, not relaxing for minutes afterwards; sometimes, when Steve moves too fast, the stallion turns on him with snapping teeth and flashing hooves, driving him away. _ I will hurt you before you hurt me, _Steve reads in his eyes, though the stallion never does hurt him, only threatens. It is fear, not aggression, that drives the stallion’s actions. 

But every time, Steve seems to get a little further, the stallion a little calmer. One day he manages to get a hand behind his ears, rubbing circles there, before the stallion shivers and ducks away. The next he manages to touch one soft ear, smiling when they flick in annoyance but not fear. The rest of the head comes easier after that, and soon Steve is stroking a careful hand down the stallion's nose, blue eyes blinking at him slowly. 

The trust is building between them, fragile as a butterfly's wing but growing stronger every day. Steve gives the stallion sugar cubes and apples snuck from his meals and brushes his coat, watching the cuts turn into scars. The stallion starts to lean into his touch, eyes drifting closed and head drooping. Steve wonders when the last time someone had touched him with kindness was. He wonders if he has ever known touch without pain.

After the stallion has spent two weeks in the round pen, Steve decides it's time to try some exercises, getting the stallion used to ground handling. In Mar-vell they use a light, flexible wooden cane for ground handling to direct the horses, and he brings one with him into the pen one afternoon to start their session. 

The stallion immediately tenses, shying backwards as Steve moves towards him and pinning his ears threateningly, a hoof scraping the ground. Steve holds out an apple in his right hand, the cane loose in his left, and stands relaxed.

"It's alright. This isn't to hurt you. I won't even touch you with it, I promise."

After minutes of suspicious eyeing, the stallion tentatively approaches, body quivering with tension. He stretches his neck out and lifts the apple from Steve's palm, gaze still firmly fixed on the cane in his left hand. 

"We're gonna have some fun today," Steve says. "Stretch your legs a little. You like that?"

The stallion bobs his head as if in agreement, relaxing slightly as he lets Steve stroke his nose. Steve finally steps back, lifting his right arm to point outwards.

"Alright, let's see what you know."

The stallion stares at him blankly, and Steve taps the ground with the cane, clicking his tongue. The stallion jumps away with a snort, setting off at a trot around the pen in the direction Steve points. He sticks to the very outside, head high and spooked and one eye fixed on Steve, and Steve lets his hand fall as the stallion circles him, gait gradually evening out and head coming down. 

"Good," Steve says. He raises his arm again and taps the cane, and the stallion springs into a canter. Steve relaxes his arm, staying still and watching the muscles bunch under the stallion's coat, glistening in the sun. He has a beautiful stride, smooth and powerful, and as he relaxes he rounds his back and arches his neck, a picture of moving grace. His dark mane flows against his neck, two-toned tail streaming behind him, silver-tipped hooves drumming a steady beat against the ground. 

"Alright, now let's slow down," Steve murmurs. To his surprise, the stallion drops to a trot as if he understood, ears flicking towards him.

"Huh." Steve shifts his weight. "Walk."

The stallion slows to a walk. Steve laughs out loud, grin splitting his face. The stallion understands _ verbal _ commands. He'll have to figure out which ones, precisely, besides _ slow _ and _ walk, _but it's better than he could have hoped for. In a warhorse, it's a dream come true.

"Trot," he calls. The stallion picks up into a trot again. "Canter!"

The stallion tosses his head, stretching out into a canter.

"Halt!"

The stallion slides to a stop, turning to face Steve with ears pricked. There's intelligence in his eyes, and a gleam of curiosity. Steve switches the cane to his right hand, and points with the left. The stallion snorts and turns, this time taking off into a smooth trot and lifting his feet high. Steve tells him to canter, but something in his eyes changes and he slides to a stop, a sort of mulish stubbornness on his face.

Steve raises his arm and clicks his tongue. "Come on."

The stallion shakes his head, stamps a hoof. Steve taps the cane on the ground and his ears flatten. There's tension in the air, building, and a glint in the stallion's eyes, fear mingled with fight. He's testing him, Steve thinks. This is the moment of truth, where trust will be broken or confirmed. 

He keeps his left arm up and taps the cane softly against the ground, asking. Not demanding, not forcing. A question, hanging in the air. He waits. 

The stallion regards him, and again Steve sees an eerie human intelligence in his eyes, the feeling of being weighed. The tension thickens, then snaps. The stallion blows out a breath and walks forwards. 

Steve drops his arm, exhaling in turn. He drops his shoulders, settles his weight on his back foot, and says quietly, "halt." 

The stallion stops, turns. Takes a step forward, then another. Steve holds out a hand and the stallion pushes into it, calm blue eyes reflecting his own. Steve strokes his velvety nose, feeling the newfound trust between them expand and blossom. 

"Thank you," he murmurs. 

The stallion whickers, and Steve smiles.


	5. Chapter 5

[Winter has decided to trust the man with the shield. No wholly, not entirely, but enough. He thinks the man is different from the others, does not want to hurt him. At least for now, it seems the man has chosen gentleness over force, patience over frustration. 

Winter is growing grudgingly fond of the man, who treats him with care and respect, who speaks to him in a soft voice about anything and everything, never pushing, never demanding. Who touches him gently, when Winter has never known gentle touch. He starts to hope that maybe this is it, that the future is full of soft caresses and stolen treats, but he knows better. The man is training him, slow as it is, and it will only worsen from here. First come the ropes, then the whips, then the saddle and bridle and sharp spurs and heavy armor, encasing him. Slowly but surely, he will be broken, caged and restrained until the screaming in his mind becomes a cacophony, drowning out all else. 

He knows the misery has started when the man brings a halter into the pen one day, a light thing made of thin rope but a halter nonetheless, long lead already attached to it. He backs away to the far side of the pen, preparing to fight. The man is naive, or just stupid, and has brought no one along, no extra ropes or whips to force the halter over his head. 

Winter paws the ground threateningly, knowing he can kill the man now, can stomp him into the dirt as he had with Pierce. He has hooves and teeth and power, and the man has naught but fragile skin and a rope. It is no contest.

"Hey," the man says, soothingly, as if Winter will listen to him. "I know you don't like this thing, but I promise it's not like before. We don't even have to put it on today. I'm just going to sit here. You're alright."

Now Winter notices the parchment and quill in his other hand, and sure enough he sinks to the ground, setting the halter and lead next to him, and begins to sketch. It's familiar, like the first few days, Winter staying on the opposite end of the pen while the man ignores him, drawing him over and over again. Winter stays away the whole day, a feeling almost like betrayal stinging him. Foolishly, a small part of him had thought it would never come to this, that the man would be content to sit with him in the pen forever. 

The next day is the same, though Winter ventures close to eat and drink before retreating again. The man does not try and touch him, but Winter knows he is just biding his time; hoping to gain Winter's trust before putting the halter on. But Winter is not like the regular horses, ruled by animal instinct and stupid trust. He understands humans, thinks like them, knows why they do the things they do. He will not fall for the man's ploy.

But maybe, after all, he is not so different from the others, for every day he finds his resolve softening. The man has not hurt him yet, has kept his promises, and despite himself Winter _ trusts _him. Just once, he allows. Just once, he will follow along with the man's desires, and see what it brings. If pain follows the halter, he will trample the man into the ground. 

The next time the man comes into the pen, Winter walks right up to him, waiting. 

"Hello." The man looks surprised. "Finally decided it's not so bad after all, huh? Or maybe you just want a treat." 

He pulls out a sugar cube, offering it to Winter, and he accepts it diplomatically. The halter is still clutched in the man's hand, and he slowly brings it up, dangling in the air. Winter supposes he's supposed to sniff it, but he already knows what it is and has no patience for the man's careful coddling. He stares at him cooly, daring him to take the next step. 

_ Come on, you know what to do. _

The man reaches out, strokes his nose, and Winter lets him. He holds the halter open, just below his nose, and waits.

_ What, do you want me to put my own head into it? _

Apparently he does. Winter snorts, gathers his resolve, and shoves his nose through the halter. It's loose, not constricting, the rope sitting lightly over the bridge of his nose, and the man waits a second more before gathering the strand behind his ears and fastening it by his cheek. The feel of it around his head makes him shiver, anxiety building, but it's bearable, light and nonrestrictive. The man strokes his cheek, murmuring words of praise and reassurance, and then undoes the halter again, letting it drop from his head.

Winter blinks. _ That's it? _

Another sugar cube is dug out of the man's pocket and offered up. Winter takes it in bewilderment, the anxiety already draining from his body with the removal of the halter. The man pats him on the neck and then walks to the edge of the pen to drop the halter on the ground, picking up the cane. 

"Want to play a bit?"

Winter bobs his head, already setting around the pen to work off the remaining traces of anxiety. The man puts him through his paces and then shifts his body back in a way Winter is learning means to stop and come to him in the center. He stops in front of the man, who pets him and then backs up a pace, tapping on the ground with his cane in front of him and not pointing. Winter cocks his head, trying to figure out what he wants.

"Back up," the man says, finally, and Winter backs until the man stops tapping. "Good." 

The man bends forwards slightly, hand out. "C’mere." 

Winter approaches again, rewarded with another sugar cube. It's child's play, and the suspicion grows that the man thinks he is a regular horse. He doesn't seem to get that he understands human speech, which is frustrating, and he treats Winter like a spooked animal. Which, he admits, he is, but he can think for himself. He paws the ground restlessly. 

"Alright, alright. Let's try something else." The man stands at his left shoulder, a pace back, and taps the cane from side to side in front of him. Winter takes a guess and steps sideways, crossing his legs under him, and the man lights up. "Yes! Good. That's beautiful."

He sidesteps across the pen and then repeats it on the other side. The man seems amazed when Winter follows his instructions. 

"I don't know whether you already know this or you're just really smart," he says, and yes, Winter thinks, he has no idea that he can understand him. Surprisingly, it doesn't bother him as much as it should. 

The man puts him through everything again, faster, and then leaves with the promise he'll be back the next day, as if Winter didn't already expect that. Sure enough, he's there bright and early the next morning, halter in hand, and this time when Winter puts his head in he undoes the lead and puts him through his paces with the halter in place before taking it off completely. 

The next day, the man is not alone. The pale, red-haired woman he'd seen after the battle climbs up to sit on top of the boards, studying him intently. She's wearing riding breeches and a tunic, hair spilling down her shoulder in a messy braid, and there's something sharp and assessing in her green eyes. 

"He looks good," she says. "You said you've got him haltered?"

"Yeah." The man enters, setting down his things and closing the gate behind him, and Winter backs away. Another person means the odds are worse for him, means they can restrain him easier. The man frowns, glancing up at the woman. "He hasn't done that in a while. I think you're spooking him."

"Probably," the woman agrees. "See if he'll come to you."

The man draws out a sugar cube and holds his hand out, enticing. Winter snorts. He isn't some dumb animal, lured by food. 

"Come on," the man says. "It's just Natasha. She's a friend. She just got back and wanted to come see how you were doing."

That makes sense. Winter weighs the facts, sees the logic in what the man is saying. He hasn't lied to him yet. 

_ Alright, _ he thinks. _ I'm trusting you here, pal. _

He comes up to the man and accepts the cube from his palm. 

"That's great, Steve," the woman – Natasha – says quietly. "He trusts you already."

_ Steve. _That is the man's name, apparently. Winter likes it. It suits him. 

"He's incredible," Steve says loyally. "He's made so much progress in just a couple weeks."

"Just be careful. I remember what Widow was like, when I first got her. That kind of fear...it took a long time for that to go away."

"I know. I'm taking it slow, don't worry."

Winter wonders what they're talking about. 

Steve strokes his nose and then steps back, pointing with his arm. "Walk."

Winter turns, walking around the pen but giving Natasha a wide berth. 

"He understands verbal commands," Steve says, posture relaxed. "I don't know exactly how many, but so far it's a lot. Watch." He taps the cane once. "Trot."

Winter picks up into a smooth trot.

"Canter."

Winter wishes, not for the first time, that he wasn't stuck in this pen. He wants to run in a straight line, feel the wind in his mane, grass beneath his hooves. He wants to push into a gallop, unhindered, the way he's only dreamed of. 

"Halt."

All too soon, he's sliding to a stop, turning his head towards Steve. Steve asks him to back up, to come to him, to sidestep across the pen. 

Natasha whistles softly. 

"You always try to run before you can walk, don't you? You're free handling before you've even put a lead on him."

Steve laughs. "Yeah, I guess so. Speaking of, I was going to try lunging him on the lead today, before I try and take him up to the stable. He's been okay with the halter so far." 

He walks to the edge and picks up the halter and lead, returning to Winter and holding it open. Winter sticks his nose in, the feeling of it sliding over his face still unwelcome but manageable. 

Steve picks up the lead, leaving slack in the rope, and asks him to back up until he's on the outside edge of the pen. Then he points his arm, clicking his tongue.

"Walk on."

The weight of the lead makes the halter press against the bridge of his nose slightly, and it jostles with every movement as he walks carefully around the edge of the pen. The sight of the lead in Steve's hand sends spikes of nervousness through him, and he can't help tensing, muscles bunching as he prances. 

"Trot."

He breaks into a canter instead, tossing his head against the feeling of the halter, the lead moving with the motion. There's enough slack in it that it almost drags on the ground, and as he tosses his head he meets no resistance, no pull on his halter, and settles. He drops to a trot, ears flicking towards Steve in apology. 

"Good," Steve says, voice warm and honeyed. "Now _ slow." _

He reluctantly drops to a walk.

"Halt."

He stops, turns towards Steve. Steve motions him closer, then backs him up again. He moves to the side, tapping, rope still loose, and Winter sidesteps across the pen in both directions. Steve sends him out in a circle again and then draws him in, producing another sugar cube. 

"You're going to spoil him," Natasha says, but her voice is teasing. 

"That's the point," Steve replies, scratching his fingers under Winter's chin. "I think he deserves a little spoiling, after everything." He gathers the lead in his hands, cane in his left. "I think we're ready to go. I want to get him to the stables so we can work on tack next. And clean the pen thoroughly."

Natasha jumps down the outside of the pen, disappearing from sight until she opens the gate. "All the other horses are out to pasture, so we won't have to deal with that. By the way, you name him yet?"

Steve starts forward and Winter follows, excited at the prospect of finally being outside after so long. "No. I haven't found one that suits him."

"I'm sure it'll come to you." Natasha walks in front of Steve, keeping space between herself and Winter, and he appreciates the distance. 

He yearns to run but follows Steve at a sedate pace instead, looking around at the green grass and gleaming stone castle on the horizon. Steve takes them to the stables and leads him into the same stall as the first day, a full water bucket already hooked in place and straw covering the floor, hay piled in the corner. Steve removes his halter and pats him before leaving, closing the door behind him and leaning on the wall. 

"Let him get settled in," Natasha suggests. "I want to see if your sword-work is still adequate."

"Oh, I'll show you adequate." They laugh as they leave, voices ringing on stone. 

* * *

* * *

Steve returns hours later with a different woman in tow, her similar features immediately identifying her as a relative of Steve's. Mother, most likely. She's dressed in fine fabrics, hair spilling down her back in ringlets, but her eyes are soft and warm as she approaches the stall. 

"Oh, he's beautiful," she says, smiling at Winter. She produces a sugar cube and holds her hand outstretched over the wall, the scent of flowers tickling his nose. He comes up and takes the proffered treat, letting her stroke his nose with delicate hands that hold no malice. 

"And you still don't have a name?" she asks, never taking her eyes off Winter. 

Steve shakes his head ruefully. "Just can't find the right one."

"Hmm." She folds a hand over his nose, staring into his eyes with sky blue ones a perfect match for Steve's. There's a tingle of something, a frisson along his nerves, and she smiles, pulling back. "Réalta."

Steve laughs. "Star? Really?" 

The woman shrugs, mouth twitching. "No. I don't know what his name is. It will come to you. Give it time."

Steve sighs. "Time. It will take that."

"You've already done a wonderful job. He's a sweetheart."

"I'm pretty sure he's killed over a dozen men."

The woman strokes Winter's nose again. "A brave one, then."

Winter decides he definitely likes her. Something warm blossoms in him at her praise, her lack of fear. _ Sweetheart. _He has never been sweet. There was no use for sweetness in Hydra. He had never felt a gentle touch nor received a kind word, never known anything but blood and death and pain for so long. And yet here, in this gleaming kingdom, he has found goodness and light he never knew could exist. Perhaps not all humans are bad after all. Perhaps he has found a home here, with this golden-haired man.

The next morning brings yet another visitor, one he vaguely recognizes from the battle, with dark skin and close-cropped hair, distrust in his eyes as he regards Winter. 

"Doesn't he already know all this?" he asks, as Steve enters the stall with the halter and lead. "He's a trained warhorse, took down quite a few of our own. I don't get why you're treating him like a green horse."

"Because he wasn't trained, he was broken," Steve responds, holding out the halter for Winter to stick his head into. He does up the knot deftly, gathering the lead. "I want to re-train him the right way. He's terrified of everything, Sam. It took days before he'd even let me close enough to touch after he saw the halter."

Sam raises an eyebrow, stepping back as Steve leads Winter out of the stall and into the aisle. "I get it, I do. I hate that he was treated so badly. But the stories I've heard about him...I'm not sure he's the kind you save."

"He is," Steve says firmly. "He's not mean, just scared, and he's smart. I'm not giving up on him." He stops, lead still in hand as he reaches for something on the side of the aisle. "He's done great on ground handling. I want to cross-tie him and work on saddling, see if he has any issues with that."

The words sink in just as he raises the tie towards Winter's face, aiming for his halter.

_ Leather straps cutting into his face, head held in place by ropes pulled tight, the crack of a whip, white-hot pain– _

His mind goes white with panic, with _ betrayal _ and he wrenches backwards, the lead pulling tight in Steve's hands. There's pressure behind his ears, the halter suddenly too tight, and he fights wildly, half-rearing and lashing out with his hooves, careening sideways into the wall. There's voices, figures in front of him, threatening, and he rears again, yanking the lead free. He stumbles, shaking his head frantically, trying to get the halter _ off, get it off get it off get it off– _

He bashes his head against the wall, the pain barely registering, backs up, trips over the trailing lead, turns, and runs.]


	6. Chapter 6

Steve cradles his bloody palms, staring out at where the stallion is vanishing in the distance. It had happened so quickly he can't do anything but stand and stare, wondering how it all went so wrong. 

The image is still vivid in his mind's eye, the stallion's visceral, raw _ fear, _his mindless panic, the way he shook his head madly, hitting it against the wood in his desperation. He doesn't know what set it off, why one moment he was fine and the next he was crazed. He feels a niggling sense of doubt, that maybe Sam is right, that the stallion is too far gone.

"I have to find him," he says numbly, already moving forwards. "I have to-"

"Steve." Sam catches his arm, looks down at his hands. "I'll find him. You need to get those hands looked at."

Steve looks down at his bloody hands, the pain just now registering. The rope had torn his palms open when the stallion pulled, taking a layer of skin off with it. They need to be bandaged, but first Steve needs to find the stallion. He trusts Steve at least a little, and might come to him. It's their only hope, besides roping him again, and Steve doesn't want to do that again if he can help it.

He shakes his head. "No. I'm fine, Sam. I'm the only one who can catch him."

Sam looks like he's about to protest but Steve silences him with a look, striding out of the stables. He looks around the expanse of pasture and farmland, thinking of where the stallion would go when scared. A flash of grey catches his eye and he spots the stallion just as he slips into the round pen. 

Interesting. He would have thought the stallion would run to open ground, get as far away as possible, but perhaps the round pen is a familiar place for him, somewhere safe.

He sets off in that direction, approaching cautiously and peering through the slats. The stallion is standing against the far wall, head hanging and sides heaving, entire body trembling. There's a scrape over his eye from hitting the wall, halter still in place and lead lying on the ground, smeared with dirt and blood from Steve's hands. 

Steve takes him in, the scars across his shoulders and hindquarters that must pale in comparison to the scars in his mind, the pain and fear he endured. For all the stallion's thrashing, he had never attacked. Besides skinned palms, Steve is unharmed, though he could have easily killed him. It hardens Steve's resolve – the stallion is not aggressive, not dangerous. He is _ scared. _

He makes his way to the gate and steps inside, keeping his movements slow.

"Hey pal. I'm sorry you got scared. I'm not going to hurt you. Why don't we just head on back and get you cleaned up, huh?"

The stallion presses himself against the boards, looking so miserable that Steve's heart squeezes. He takes a step forward and the stallion flinches, eyes closing and head turned away. Steve takes a steadying breath against the anger that bubbles up at Hydra, for doing this to this beautiful creature, and lowers himself to the ground, crossing his legs. 

The minutes drag on. Gradually, the stallion uncurls, muscles relaxing. He glances over at Steve, ears drooping, something seemingly apologetic in his eyes though Steve knows it can't be. Head lowered, he creeps closer like a beaten dog, pushing his nose into Steve's chest. He whuffles over Steve's hands as he raises them, nosing the bloodied palms gently.

"It's alright," Steve feels the need to reassure him, stroking fingertips down his nose. "Just a little skin. I'm fine."

The stallion huffs in response, taking a step back. Steve stands, gently grabbing the lead and leaving ample slack between them as he clicks his tongue and starts to walk. The stallion follows, head at Steve's shoulder, calmness a sharp contrast to his earlier panic. Sam is waiting for them in the stables, face drawn and nervous, and he blinks in surprise when he sees them. 

"He let you catch him after that?" he asks incredulously.

Steve shrugs, leading the stallion into his stall. "He didn't go far. Once he calmed down, he was fine. Something must have set him off." He undoes the halter and slides it off, watching the stallion blow out a breath and shake his head, the last of the tension draining out of him. 

"Looked to me like he just went crazy," Sam says. "Who knows what it was."

Steve sighs, going to run a hand over his face before he remembers his stinging palms. "Yeah." He turns his hands over. "I better take care of these."

He trudges to the castle, Sam splitting off to train with Redwing as Steve goes to the healer's chambers. Erskine tuts over his hands and applies charmed healing salve before wrapping them in bandages, telling him to come back in the evening. Steve nods and retreats to his chambers, working on a few neglected documents halfheartedly as his mind strays to the stallion. He's just about to give up on work when there's a knock on his door and Natasha comes in, stepping over to his writing desk and perching on the edge.

"I heard what happened."

Steve sighs, slumping in his chair. "I don't know what I did wrong. He's been fine with the halter and lead, was perfectly calm. I reached for the cross-tie and he just..."

Natasha studies him, nails scratching gently at the wood surface. "You remember almost two years ago, when I snuck into Hydra to spy on them?"

"Yeah, of course." It was just after he’d lost Bucky, still reeling from grief.

Natasha traces patterns on the desk, looking down. "I got into their training grounds. Looked around, just to see what I could. The sound was what drew me. I’ve never heard a horse scream like that."

Steve feels a chill go down his spine and sits up straighter, narrowing his eyes at Natasha.

"It was him,” she says, voice low and rough. “The Winter Stallion. There was some sort of bridle on his head, leather straps everywhere. They had him cross-tied between two posts, ropes pulled so tightly he couldn't move his head. Then they took whips, and..."

"Oh Gods." Steve feels sick. "His scars..."

"Yeah."

"And why he doesn't like the halter."

"Probably."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Natasha looks up, giving him a sad smile. "Because you would have gone in and tried to rescue him, rescue all the horses. And it would've compromised everything. The intel I got helped us defeat Hydra, and I knew that. But leaving him there was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I didn't want to put that on you."

* * *

* * *

Steve leans on the stall door, arms crossed. The stallion comes up, nosing along his arms and nudging him, eyes bright and curious. Steve sighs.

"I'm sorry about today. I didn't know what they did to you. No more cross-tying, I promise."

The stallion whickers and bobs his head, lipping at the bandages around his hands.

"Don't eat them," Steve chastises, pulling away. Surprisingly, the stallion seems to listen, falling still. 

"Ay, Réalta," Steve sighs, reaching out to stroke his nose. "I wish I knew how to help you." He crosses his arms on the door again, resting his chin on them. "I remember watching Natasha with Widow, when she first got her. A group of warlords had raised her, made her vicious and wild. She bit or kicked everyone in reach, those first few weeks. But Natasha won her trust, taught her how to be a real horse. Now she's one of our best. Still won't let anyone but Natasha touch her, but that's okay."

The stallion is watching him with those deep blue eyes, soft and trusting, ears pricked as if he's listening attentively. 

"You deserve that. You deserve a second chance at life. I just hope I can give you that. I messed up today, and I'll probably mess up again. I worry that I'll fail you, somehow."

The stallion snorts, shaking his head.

Steve chuckles, straightening up. "Yeah, it sounds stupid, right? But I've got a lot of pressure on me, you know. I'm the Prince. The whole kingdom is depending on me. We've been at war with Hydra since I was a child, and now that we're finally winning everything will change. We have new lands, new people to protect, new allies to make. I wish I could just spend all my time with you, but I can't. Right now, everything's peaceful, and my Ma gave me time to train you, but eventually I'll have to get back to work. Probably have to ride out again, make negotiations, fight back the last of Hydra. Maybe by that time I can ride you, though, what do you think?"

The stallion's ears prick up. 

Steve smiles "Yeah, I'd like that too."

* * *

* * *

The next day when Steve brings the stallion out he simply drops the lead, leaving him ground-tied in the aisle. For most horses, he would want them secure, or at least have another person here with him, but in the stallion's case he's learning that it only makes it worse. Any pull on the halter and the stallion will spook, and other people seem to make him more nervous. He'd rather let him run away and have to go catch him than repeat the incident yesterday.

He starts off by brushing him, hands almost fully healed thanks to Erskine's salve. He draws the softest brush over the scars littering his skin, tracing each one and picturing how it was given, the pain and terror inflicted on the stallion. He thinks of being tied, unable to move, unable to escape the cruelty, and understands with perfect clarity now why the stallion hates any pull on the halter. He's not sure that will ever go away, no matter how much they work on it. He'll just have to be careful.

He picks out each of his feet, noting that the shoes are getting old and need to be reset. He'll have to find Tony at some point. A small comb gets out the worst tangles in the stallion's mane, coaxing the unruly strands flat, and Steve even makes a small braid just for fun. The stallion is relaxed, a back hoof cocked and head drooping, eyes closing slowly. He looks, for once, at peace, and Steve smiles to himself. 

Grooming done, he collects his cane and leads the stallion out into the sunshine. He heads for the training ring, a large rectangle of dirt with a low fence on all sides, and back the stallion out away from him before signaling him to walk, cane tapping on the ground. The stallion sets off, seemingly enjoying the freedom to drift out to the end of the rope in the large ring, stretching his legs and picking up into a trot when Steve asks. 

He runs the stallion through his exercises, admiring the play of muscles under his shiny coat and marveling at how much better he looks than when he arrived. His wounds have healed nicely, the coiled tension bled away and the fear gone from his eyes, movements loose and graceful. It’s tempting to think all is well, that there will be no more problems, but Steve knows it can’t be so. There are so many things he does not know about the stallion, so much of what was done to him still a mystery. He cannot always predict what will set him off.

All he can do is try, though, and with each day the bond between them grows stronger, the stallion more confident. There are mishaps, and occasionally Steve moves the wrong way or too fast and the stallion panics, dragging the rope through Steve’s hands as he fights to get away; but, slowly but surely, the rocky road smooths out until there’s no doubt in Steve’s mind that he made the right choice. 

Soon enough, it’s time to start the stallion under saddle. Steve starts with the saddle blanket, rubbing it over the stallion's flank before settling it over his back. The stallion shifts but stays calm, bending his head around to nose Steve. He rewards him with a sugar cube, stroking his neck before picking up the saddle. He lets the stallion eye it and keeps his motions slow as he swings it into place, glad for his height and strength. The stallion stands at over 16 hands – unusually tall for a horse – and his withers come up to Steve's chin, just barely allowing him to see over his back. 

The stallion shifts again under the weight of the saddle, ears flicking back in displeasure, but he only tosses his head and stamps a hoof, no traces of panic in his eyes. 

"Good job," Steve praises, holding out a sugar cube, and the stallion bends his neck again, lips tickling Steve's palm. "You think we can try the girth?"

The stallion flicks his tail. Steve moves to his right side to attach the girth before circling to the left again and reaching under the stallion's belly, drawing it up. He holds it loose, just touching skin, for a moment, letting the stallion get used to it, before slowly starting to tighten it. The stallion shivers and shifts, ears pinning, but doesn't fuss, and just like that he's saddled. 

Steve picks up the cane leaning against the wall and gathers the lead, the stallion following him out into the mid morning sunshine. He heads for the training ring and sets about longeing the stallion, who moves nicely through his paces, only crow-hopping and bucking a little at the start. 

He's cantering in circles when Steve sees Natasha and Sam approaching, stopping by the fence to watch. Steve halts the stallion and walks over, wiping beads of sweat off his brow.

"Hey."

"Hey," Natasha responds. "Looking good."

Steve nods, turning to look at the stallion standing a pace behind him. "Yeah. He had no trouble with saddling."

"How are the hands?" Sam asks. 

Steve pulls off his gloves and shows him his palms, the scrapes completely healed. "All good."

Sam shakes his head. "I still think he's crazy, but I'll admit you've made progress."

"Thanks, Sam."

Natasha jerks a head towards the stallion. "You going to try and ride him today?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I don't want to push him too fast."

"Try bareback first. That's what I did with Widow. It's easier to communicate, get him responding to leg signals that aren't spurs. Probably more comfortable for him, too, if he's had bad experiences under saddle."

Steve chews on his lip thoughtfully. "Yeah. That might just work. Let me get the saddle off him, grab a shorter lead."

He quickly untacks the stallion, setting the saddle on the fence, and accepts the shorter lead Sam hands him, tying both ends to the bottom of the halter to make a loop around his neck. He leads the stallion over to the fence and steps up on the second pole, leaning his weight across his back. The stallion cranes his neck to look at Steve, eyeing him curiously, and Steve slowly puts a leg over him, sliding onto his back and sitting still.

The stallion nibbles at his boot, then straightens out, pawing at the ground with a hoof. Steve takes the hint and gently squeezes with his calves, clicking his tongue.

"Walk on."

The stallion starts to walk, moving away from the fence. Steve holds the makeshift reins loosely in both hands, resting in front of his thighs, enough slack to give the stallion his head and then some. He concentrates on trying to steer with his legs, seeing how responsive the stallion is. Very responsive, it turns out, as he bends to the lightest pressure, ears continually flicking back towards Steve. 

He squeezes with both legs. "Trot."

The trot is smooth as silk, Steve barely bouncing at all, and he can feel the stallion's powerful muscles bunching beneath him. It's a heady feeling, the warmth of skin seeping through his breeches, soft hair under his hands, the expansion of his ribs under Steve's legs with every breath. He feels intimately connected to him, as if they are one, moving across the ring in a beautiful diagonal as the stallion crosses his legs and arches his neck. They circle the ring, passing Sam and Natasha, the sunlight glinting off the stallion's coat.

"Beautiful," Natasha calls as they pass. "Try a canter."

Steve squeezes and asks, and the stallion moves seamlessly into a rocking canter, mane flowing over Steve's hands and hooves drumming a steady rhythm on the ground. He lets him run for one revolution around the ring before deepening his seat, leaning back ever so slightly.

"Slow."

The stallion shakes his head, pinning his ears back and extending his stride. Steve moves his hand on the inside rein, prepared to ease him into a circle until he slows, and suddenly the world heaves and Steve is tumbling off, landing with a thud in the dirt. 

He lies sprawled on his back, slightly stunned but unharmed except for some bruises, including a bruised pride. He hasn't been bucked off since he was a _ child. _There's the sound of footfalls and a shadow blocks the sun, a soft nose whuffling over his face and nudging his chest. 

"Yeah, I'm fine," Steve mumbles. "I'm great, really, thanks a lot." He reaches up and pets the stallion's nose, amusement bubbling in his chest. 

"Steve?" Sam's voice calls. "You alright?"

Steve raises a hand in the air and flaps it. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You and bucky there look like you're having a moment."

_ Bucky. _ He looks up at the stallion, into eyes such a familiar shade of blue it takes his breath away for a moment. Maybe this is his penance. Maybe the reason why he feels such a connection is because there is something achingly familiar about the stallion, his unbroken spirit, his hidden gentleness. He could not save Bucky, but he can save the stallion.

"Bucky," he says, smiling up at the stallion. "Your name is Bucky."

* * *

* * *

[Winter chews a mouthful of hay, watching as Steve leans on the stall and watches him in turn, something sad and pensive in his eyes. 

"He'd like you. My Bucky. Always had a thing for saving others."

Winter steps closer, nudges Steve's arms. _ Why are you so sad? _ he wants to ask. _ Who was Bucky? _

"He saved me, when we first met. I was five. I had wandered away from the castle and got lost, ended up cornered by some boys. Bucky fought them off and brought me home to his parents. They knew I was the Prince immediately and took me home, but I kept coming back. He was the only friend I had for a long time, before Erskine healed me and I could finally be a knight. We were both knights together, though I think he only joined because of me. His parents were shoemakers."

Steve sighs, pain glimmering in his eyes. "I loved him, and he loved me. Every time I needed him, he was there. Always saving me. But the one time he needed me, I failed him. Two years ago, we led a patrol into Hydra lands, trying to capture their mage, Zola."

Winter shivers at the name, something just on the edge of his memory.

"It was a trap," Steve continues, voice rough. "I got hit, and Bucky dragged me out of the fight, told me to stay down. He got himself captured to keep me hidden. I passed out. Someone eventually found me, brought me back to the castle. When I woke up, I asked about the patrol. They told me Hydra had slaughtered every single one. They sent a head back, one of the younger knights, with a note. There was nothing to bury for the rest. I didn't even get to say goodbye."

A tear slips down his face and he scrubs it away, taking a wet breath. 

"I don't think he'd mind, me naming you after him.” A wry smile crosses his face. “Everyone called him that because his pony used to buck him off all the time when he was little. Sam never knew Bucky, and I never talk about him, so him saying that, it’s…“ He shrugs. “He didn’t know. Anyway, I've never really talked about that before. You're a good listener."

Winter thinks about Steve, and the man who laid down his life to keep him safe. He's starting to see why; he thinks he would kill anyone who tried to harm Steve, who is everything that is good in the world. If Steve wants, he will be Bucky. He is no longer Winter, no longer what Hydra made him. 

_ Bucky _shoves his nose into Steve's chest, nickering softly, and lets Steve press their foreheads together, the two of them standing still in the silence.]


	7. Chapter 7

#  **Part II**

** **

Steve sits deeper and squeezes with his left leg, one hand tangled in Bucky's mane.

"Yield," he murmurs, and Bucky bends around his leg, trotting sideways. His neck is arched, sweat dampening his shoulders, and his breath comes in soft huffs in the stillness of the early morning. The saddle creaks quietly, leather worn and soft under Steve's legs. 

The reins to his halter lay over Bucky's withers, untouched, and Steve carries the cane in his right hand, mimicking a sword. He swings it through the air and Bucky tenses under him, ears flattening, but continues to trot on, coming around the end of the ring and making another diagonal to the opposite corner. 

"Good," Steve murmurs, switching his grip on the cane so it points towards Bucky's hindquarters. Bucky spooks slightly, hind end swinging around to evade it, but quickly settles, ears flicking as if in apology. It’s better than the first time he tried this, at least – Bucky had thrown him badly and wouldn’t let Steve come near for hours afterwards. 

Steve twirls the cane over his head and along Bucky's sides and this time he doesn't spook, responding beautifully to Steve's cues as they circle the ring. He urges Bucky into a canter and then sits deep in the center of the ring, right leg pressing near Bucky's shoulder and left back towards his hindquarters.

"Spin," he commands, and Bucky flows smoothly from the canter into a spin to the left, circling in place as Steve swings the cane. He switches his legs and Bucky spins to the right just as fast, muscles bunching, and then springs forwards into a gallop as Steve presses both calves equally against his sides. He lets him run for half the length of the ring, and then shifts his weight backwards and Bucky slides to a sudden stop, breathing hard. 

Steve leans down to pat his neck, grinning stupidly. A whistle splits the air and he turns to see Clint at the gate with his dun horse Hawkeye, bow in hand. 

"Looking good, Steve!" he calls. "Mind if I cut in?"

Steve walks Bucky over, letting him cool down. "Yeah, go ahead. I want to see how he is around other horses, anyways."

Clint grins and leads Hawkeye in, springing up into the saddle gracefully. There's a quiver of arrows attached to the saddle, hanging just behind his leg, and he holds the reins in his right hand and bow in his left as he warms up, putting Hawkeye through his paces. Steve walks Bucky around the edge of the ring, cane discarded and feet out of the stirrups, both of them stretching tired muscles. 

Clint finally begins to train in earnest, setting Hawkeye at a trot and dropping the knotted reins as he nocks his bow and shoots, hitting one of the targets sitting along one side of the ring. He repeats it at a canter, shooting sideways and hitting every target dead on. Bucky snorts, watching with pricked ears, and Steve chuckles.

"Impressed?"

Bucky snorts again, and they circle their end of the ring, staying out of the way of Clint's aim. Steve watches as Clint wheels Hawkeye and then swings a leg over the saddle, hooking his knee around the specially crafted protrusion on the front and dangling backwards over Hawkeye's side, shooting upside-down. The arrow lands perfectly in the center of the target. Steve whistles in appreciation and Bucky bobs his head up and down, whickering.

Clint pulls himself back up into the saddle and then stands on it, perfectly balanced as Hawkeye gallops, firing arrows with precision accuracy. He sits, spins so he's backwards, fires, balances in one stirrup and fires over Hawkeye's back, jumps to the ground and rolls, firing, before Hawkeye swoops past and Clint grabs onto the saddle, mounting again in midair.

Bucky has stopped completely, watching them with what seems like open amazement, but is most likely just horse curiosity. 

"Don't worry," Steve tells him, "we're not going to do that."

Bucky swishes his tail and bobs his head. Steve laughs. 

* * *

* * *

Steve finally decides to get Bucky's shoes renewed after he's been with them for a little over a month. Tony is a blacksmith, a farrier, and also the best weapons-forger in the lands – one skill just isn’t enough for him. He had made the circular shield Steve carries, spells interwoven to make the metal near impenetrable.

Steve ground-ties Bucky in Tony's workshop, unsure how he'll respond, and Tony spreads his things out, leather apron tied behind his back. 

"Alright," he says, rubbing his hands together. "Let's do this. Just make sure murder stallion here doesn't murder me."

"No promises," Steve mutters. "Not sure if he's had any bad experiences with shoeing, though it was Hydra, so probably. Just go slow, I'll tell you if he's getting agitated."

"Gotcha." Tony leans down and picks up Bucky's left foreleg, studying the shoe. "These are some serious shoes. Deadly. Want the same, or different?"

Steve shrugs. "Whatever is going to make him the most comfortable."

"That, I can do." He pulls Bucky's leg between his thighs, pliers in hand as he starts to pull out the nails. Steve strokes Bucky's neck, and is surprised when Bucky presses his forehead to Steve's chest, ears flattened against his head.

"You don't like this, huh?" Steve murmurs. But Bucky doesn't move, just keeps his face hidden in Steve's tunic as Tony works. 

It's strange behavior for a horse, but Steve has grown to learn that there's a lot about Bucky that is strange. He's weirdly smart, for one, and sometimes Steve _ swears _he understands what he's saying. He doesn't respond to things the way most normal horses do, and sometimes doesn't even act like a horse at all, displaying bizarre behaviors that baffle Steve. He wonders how long Hydra had him, and if maybe that has something to do with it. He probably hadn't been allowed to be a normal horse – everyone knows Hydra’s horses are different.

The old shoe clatters to the ground, and Tony hums as he trims the hoof, snipping and rasping. He sets Bucky's hoof down momentarily to turn so he's facing his head, bringing Bucky's leg forwards and resting his hoof on his thigh as he continues to rasp the edges smooth. 

Then comes the process of shaping the shoe, heating and pounding it as Tony matches it to the shape of the hoof. Steam hisses from it and Bucky jerks. Steve strokes his neck and murmurs soothing words into his ears as Tony starts to pound in the nails, each strike of the hammer making Bucky flinch. 

One hoof done, Tony moves on to the next, Bucky staying still except to flinch occasionally. Steve has rarely seen a horse hold so still for so long, as if making a conscious effort to make Tony's job easier. Or, more likely, he's just been trained not to move, probably through pain and fear. The way Bucky flinches and trembles is testament to that. 

Finally, all four feet are done, and Bucky's head perks up, ears swiveling. He carefully lifts each foot in place as if testing them out, pawing the ground and then shaking his head up and down.

"You approve?" Steve teases.

Bucky nods his head vigorously again, ears flopping. Tony looks between Steve and Bucky, expression bemused.

"Is it just me, or does he actually understand what you're saying?"

"You know, I've often thought the same thing. I think he just responds to my voice, a certain tone or something. He does understand a lot of verbal commands, too."

"It's a strange horse you've got there, Rogers. I've gotta say, that was about the easiest job I've ever done."

Steve smiles softly, rubbing Bucky's nose. "Yeah. He's pretty incredible."

* * *

* * *

["Alright," Steve says one day, after they've been training under saddle for weeks, "I think it's time to try using the reins."

Bucky immediately pins his ears, trying to convey his displeasure with the idea. They've been fine with Steve using leg and voice cues, why do they have to change now?

"I know," Steve says, giving him a sympathetic pat. "But there's things I can't cue for without reins. Don't worry, we'll stick with the rope halter for now."

Bucky still hates the idea, but he has thrown himself fully into being Steve's horse and he supposes he'll just have to tough it out. He knows Steve won't ever hurt him, though sometimes his body still reacts, panic clouding his thoughts. He remembers the pain of the bit, the way they had hobbled one foreleg so they could saddle and ride him; the ropes and restraints, spurs and whips it had taken to get him to submit. He hates pressure on his halter, feels panic creep over him at the very idea, but for Steve he will try.

Steve starts in the ring, with just the rope halter on, grasping the sides behind his ears and pulling down until he drops his head. It's unpleasant, but bearable, Steve only exerting the barest pressure and murmuring reassurances the entire time. Then he moves to his nose, standing at his shoulder and pulling until Bucky steps backwards. Then it's getting him to flex his head to each side, pulling the reins one way and then the other. With Steve's scent in his nose, Steve's voice in his ear, nothing keeping him restrained, Bucky finds it's not as bad as he thought it would be. 

Next Steve hops on his bare back and does the same with the reins, making him back up and flex his head to each side. Backing up makes him tense, memories of a painful bit in his mouth, head pulled nearly to his chest. But Steve only barely pulls, not enough to bend his head, and releases as soon as he backs, rubbing his shoulder. Flexion doesn't bother him, and he nibbles on Steve's boots each time, making him laugh. 

Riding bareback, Steve gets him used to contact on the reins, interpreting the minuscule twitches and responding accordingly. Bucky grudgingly admits that, for a normal horse, there are things that reins help to cue, such as trotting in place or cantering in a tight circle, both being told to go faster by Steve's legs and slower by the tension in the reins. Of course, Steve could just say what he wanted and Bucky would obey, but Steve still doesn't seem to realize that. 

Steve teaches him to extend his front legs forwards with every step, slashing with sharp hooves, and to do the _ piaffe, _ muscles burning as he trots in place. The first time Steve squeezes with his calves and pulls on the reins simultaneously Bucky panics, the conflicting messages and feeling of restriction, of being _ unable to escape _sending him spiraling down dark paths in his mind. He immediately rears, dropping down only to duck his head between his legs and promptly buck Steve off. 

As the panic fades shame sets in, and he hangs his head. Steve gets up off the ground and dusts himself off and Bucky slinks to him, nosing him all over and checking for injuries.

_ Sorry, I’m sorry, _ he thinks. _ I didn't mean to, I was stupid, I'm so sorry. I know you wouldn't hurt me. _

Steve just pets him and laughs it off, swinging back on easily and this time cueing gentler, slower. Bucky, desperate to show Steve he can do it, arches his neck, lifts his feet, and trots in place, muscles burning with the strain but Steve's proud praise music to his ears. 

Natasha brings her horse Widow in to train with them, to apparently see how Bucky handles other horses, and Bucky spends the entire session completely ignoring Widow, slightly offended that they think he would act out. He's not a _ regular _horse, and sometimes it irks him, that no one here seems to know that. Steve waxes lyrical about Bucky's composure, though, so it softens the blow. He doesn't have enough pride not to admit that Steve's praise makes him feel warm inside. 

Soon, the rest of the knights are bringing their horses in to train alongside him, quickly realizing that he has the most impeccable manners of any of them. Even Sam seems to warm to him, bringing his chestnut stallion Redwing alongside him to spar lightly with Steve. They're using real swords now, albeit blunted practice ones, and Bucky finds out that Steve is one of the most talented swordsmen in the land. Steve also fights with the circular shield Bucky had first seen him with, painted with the kingdom's colors and a bright star in the middle, and Bucky thinks it quite suits him. 

Bucky already knows how to fight, of course, has killed men and injured horses in battle before. But there's something about relearning it with Steve, becoming _ one, _that makes the blood sing through his veins. He is careful, in practice, not to actually hurt anyone, and the first time he latches onto Sam's sleeve with his teeth and pulls him gently from the saddle everyone stares, astonishment and fear warring on their faces. 

Sam is less than happy, and refuses to spar with them for a week, certain Bucky will kill him. It's not an unfair assumption, for a regular horse. But Bucky knows the difference between battle and sparring, between enemy and friend, and he knows he would never hurt Steve's knights. 

That doesn’t mean he has to like them. 

They’re in the middle of training when a page runs up, taking a couple of wheezy breaths, face red. “Your highness is being summoned to the castle on urgent business,” he says. 

Steve nods, dismounting and patting Bucky’s neck. “Alright. Let me put my horse away and I’ll be right there.”

“There’s no time, your highness. There’s an urgent matter that requires your attention.”

Steve sighs, glancing at Bucky. “Hey Sam?” he calls.

Sam jogs over from the rail where he and Peggy were watching. “Yes?”

“Could you put Bucky away for me? There’s something I have to take care of.”

“Of course, sire.”

Steve gives Bucky one last pat and passes his reins to Sam, hurrying off after the page. Bucky is left alone with Sam and Peggy, neither of whom he knows or trusts. Steve is the only human he trusts, and he has a sudden wash of panic when he realizes that for the first time, he is without him. 

Sam reaches up to untie the knot of Bucky’s rope reins and Bucky jerks backwards, fear spiralling through him. 

“Easy there,” Sam says calmly. “No need for that now.”

He snags the tail of the knot and pulls until it comes undone, gathering the lead in his hands. Bucky shifts anxiously, wishing Steve would come back. He didn’t know just how much he needed Steve, just how comfortable Steve made him feel, until he left. 

“Come on,” Sam says, clicking his tongue.

Bucky digs his heels in, pinning his ears. _ No. _He’s not letting anyone but Steve handle him like a common animal, or take him anywhere.

“Seriously?” Sam sighs. 

“Need some help?” Peggy asks, and Bucky feels himself coiling tighter at the reminder that there is another person here, another person who can restrain and hurt him and Steve isn’t here to stop it. 

“We’ll see.” Sam takes a step backwards, drawing his hands down the rope lightly. “Come on, demon horse,” he coaxes.

Bucky snorts, pawing the ground. Sam takes another step back, the lead pulling taut. The pressure behind Bucky’s ears makes his vision white out, panic thrumming through his body. 

“You know Steve hardly touches the rope,” he hears Peggy say distantly. “Maybe he responds better to direction.”

He sees her step towards his side, cane in hand, and then she starts to lift it and he plunges backwards, yanking the lead from Sam’s hand as he skitters sideways away from the _ whip, the cruel hands trying to restrain him _– 

They’re in front of him now, hands raised, and he sees red. He charges, bearing down on them, intent on trampling them into the dirt– 

And slides to a stop feet away as cold reality pierces through the panic. Sam and Peggy look terrified, eyes wide and faces pale, no whips or restraints in sight. It’s not their fault, he realizes as he stands with sides heaving, horrified at what he’d nearly done. They don’t know his past or his triggers, don’t know the ways Steve has compromised for his sake. They are good people, and they do not deserve to be killed, no matter how much he hates anyone who isn’t Steve. For Steve’s sake, he cannot kill his friends.

He backs away slowly, trembling with the aftermath of fear and adrenaline. He wants Steve. He _ needs _him. Steve will tell him what to do in his soft voice, will touch Bucky gently and assure him he’s safe. 

“You alright?” Peggy asks Sam quietly.

“I think so. What _ was _ that? I’ve never seen a horse do that. He just _ stopped. _”

“I’m just glad he didn’t kill us, whatever the reason.”

Sam takes a deep breath and steps forward. “Hey there. Let’s try that again.” He takes another step forward and Bucky retreats, needing to put as much distance between them as possible – for both their sakes.

Sam stops, but reaches down and picks up the trailing lead, movements slow and telegraphed. He steps backwards, exerting the lightest pressure on the lead.

Bucky rears, lashing out with his front hooves. He knows he won’t hit Sam, but he needs to get him _ away. _He isn’t going anywhere without Steve. 

“Okay, okay.” Sam drops the lead to stay out of reach of Bucky’s hooves, cursing under his breath. Bucky drops back to the ground, prancing with nerves.

It goes on this way for a long time. Peggy and Sam try everything, coaxing and cajoling him while threatening him under their breath. They do not try the cane again – he is not either of their horses, and they do not want to try anything that may end in another disaster. 

“I am done,” Sam declares with a groan after at least an hour of trying. “The demon horse has broken me. Steve couldn’t have gotten a nice, normal horse – no, he had to go for the crazy one.”

“Stay here,” Peggy says tiredly. “I’ll see if I can go get Steve.”

“You want me to watch him by myself?”

“He’s not aggressive unless provoked. He’s just...stubborn. Just stand here and don’t do anything and you’ll be fine.”

“Fine,” Sam grumbles. “Tell his highness to hurry.”

Peggy sighs and strides off. Sam sits on the ring fence and watches Bucky with a sour expression. 

“I hate you,” he says. “I have no idea how Steve gets you to do anything.”

Bucky snorts and pins his ears at Sam.

“Don’t you threaten me. This is all your fault. I thought I was _ good _ with horses before you. Actually, you know what, I _ know _I am. You’re just not a normal horse.”

Bucky turns, showing Sam his rear.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about.”

A few minutes later, there’s the sound of footsteps and Bucky scents Steve coming. He whinnies, trotting towards Steve as he hops over the ring fence. Bucky slides to a stop in front of him, nosing him all over and pushing against his chest. _ Don’t ever leave me again, _he chastises silently. 

“So,” Peggy drawls. “Your horse doesn’t like other people.”

Steve sighs, scratching Bucky behind his ear. “I guess so.”

After that, Steve starts having other people try to interact with Bucky while he’s there, ostensibly to make him more comfortable with the idea. Bucky is adamantly opposed. There’s nothing Steve can do that will make him like other humans. Steve is his and his alone.

After the fourth time Bucky bites Sam when he tries to get close, Sam emphatically declines to be a part of the ongoing effort. 

“He is a demon horse,” he says. “I refuse to get within ten feet of him ever again.”

Bucky is almost sad. Antagonizing Sam had been one of the highlights of his life. For all he raged and complained, Sam was remarkably good-spirited about being bitten – not that he bit hard, Bucky never wanted to hurt him – and never once retaliated or tried to hurt Bucky in any way. Steve’s idea of punishment is a firm word and sending him out on the lead to circle. 

“You know, it seems to me that you’re not trying _ very _hard to fix this,” Peggy notes.

Steve sighs and leans against Bucky, slinging one arm over his neck and ruffling his mane. “We’ve established that he’s not necessarily _ aggressive _towards other people unless provoked, he just doesn’t like them. I can think of a lot of scenarios where other people being unable to handle him would be a good thing. No one can ever take him without me knowing, for one.”

“Hmm. You may be right.”

Bucky paws the ground and bobs his head.

“See?” Steve says. “He agrees.”

Peggy sighs.

* * *

* * *

Steve holds up the bridle, and Bucky's mind fizzes.

_ What. _

"Ropes get caught on things during battle," Steve says, explaining as he always does even if he thinks Bucky can’t understand, "And come untied. Leather is a must."

Bucky pins his ears, telling Steve _ exactly _ where he can stick his bridle. _ NO. You are _ not _ putting that thing on me. You are _ not _ putting a bit in my mouth. _

Steve turns the bridle, showing empty space where the bit would be. "No bit, see? You don't seem to need one, so that saves us that mess. It's just like the halter, only leather."

Bucky lets his ears come forwards a fraction. _ Okay, I'm listening, Rogers. No bit, I can work with that. _

Steve grins that sunshine smile that makes Bucky's bones melt. "Atta boy." He walks forward and takes off Bucky's halter, trusting him to stay put. He'd even turned him out to pasture last week, and Bucky had luxuriated in rolling in the grass. Steve had had to scrub the stains out of his coat, ending with them both soaked.

He holds out the bridle and Bucky pokes his nose in, breathing through the feeling of constriction and scent of leather. Steve tucks his ears through the top and fastens the throat latch, letting him adjust before tightening the noseband. The feeling of his jaw being pulled shut makes Bucky jerk his head up out of reach, resisting the urge to rear. 

Hydra had bound his mouth shut to keep him from biting, had fastened his head with leather straps and tied it to his chest, had immobilized it and cut into him with whips until he stood still, had cuffed and struck and whipped him for any infraction. They had done all this and more, and they had left scars on his mind, ugly twists of fear that do not fade no matter how gently Steve touches him or how softly he speaks.

_ I can't, _ he thinks, wishing he could speak to beg Steve. _ I can't do it, I can't, take it off, please, take it off. _

"It's alright," Steve soothes. "It won't hurt you."

_ I know, I don't care, I can't do it, please. _He bounces on his front feet, almost a rear, and shakes his head. Desperate, he pushes his nose into Steve's hands, pleading silently for him to take it off. Steve grasps the noseband gently and Bucky pulls back, angling his head and trying to pull the bridle over his ears, frustrated when Steve simply lets go. He paws the ground, throws his head up, nudges Steve again, never having wished to be able to speak so badly. 

"You want it off?"

He nods, yes, yes, he wants it off, gods, Steve, get it off-

Steve unbuckles the straps and slides it off and Bucky relaxes, blowing out a breath and hanging his head, working his mouth to remind himself that he can. 

"That bad, huh?"

He snorts. _ Yeah, pal. Pretty bad. _

Steve spends the next hour rubbing him with the bridle, as if that will make him feel any better about it, and offering him sugar cubes, which admittedly help. But when he holds out the bridle again, Bucky backs away, stamping a hoof.

_ No. _He will tolerate a lot for Steve, but he cannot do this.

Steve sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Alright. Well. That went well." He puts Bucky back in his stall, a gloomy air surrounding him, and Bucky feels like he's disappointed him. It's not a good feeling, and he wants more than anything to make Steve happy, but this is one thing he knows he cannot do. 

Steve returns the next day bearing the bridle, but when he holds it out it looks different.

"Natasha said if you had trouble with the noseband you could make it separate. See?" 

He shows where the reins attach to a ring on the side of the part that goes over his nose, a separate strap hanging underneath. He can see that it would not cinch, would not get any tighter than the halter would, and takes a tentative step closer.

"I stayed up all night making this," Steve says, and Bucky's last resistance crumbles.

He pokes his nose into the bridle, letting Steve pull it over his head. The chinstrap dangles just below his chin, no more confining than the halter, and Steve simply fastens the piece beneath his throat and the bridle is complete. The leather is soft against his skin, the part over his nose wrapped in what feels like cloth that he had seen was dyed red, white, and blue. Mar-vell's colors.

"Alright?" Steve asks, stroking his neck. Bucky nickers and lips at Steve's hair, fondness welling up.

_ Thank you, _ he says silently. _ Thank you thank you thank you. _

Carrying Steve with the bitless bridle is no different from the halter, except for the difference in pressure on his nose. Instead of thin rope and knots it is flat leather wrapped in soft cloth, but Steve still barely pulls to cue and Bucky complies willingly, enjoying the feeling of stretching his legs. 

He likes when Steve rides him, he's finding, likes how it feels like they are a team, moving in unison and needing barely a twitch to communicate. He likes knowing that Steve is safe on his back, for Bucky will never let him come to harm. 

Steve teaches him the cues to rear and to kick out, and Bucky supplements them with slashing hooves and snapping jaws, using everything he learned from Hydra. 

"He's been taught how to fight on his own," Natasha comments, Widow's black coat shining underneath her. "We all saw him fight in the battle with Hydra."

Shame curls in Bucky's stomach. He had fought against Steve, had killed his fellow knights. He hadn't known it was wrong at the time, had never known anything else but Hydra and the pain that followed if he did not perform. But still. He wishes he could take it back, wishes he had fought harder against Hydra.

"Yeah," Steve agrees, fingers twisting in Bucky's mane. "He's the smartest horse I've ever met. At least now he's fighting for the right side."

_ I'll never fight against you again, _ Bucky swears. _ I will protect you or die trying. _

He does not trust Steve on regular horses, who will not fight with everything they have to keep him safe, who do not understand the duty they have been entrusted with. It feels as if Bucky was made for Steve, and he knows he will serve him until the day he dies. Not out of fear, or simple duty, no – out of _ love. _

"I think you're ready," Steve says, patting his sweat-dampened shoulder. Bucky paws the ground and bobs his head, Steve's easy laughter warming him from the inside out.]


	8. Chapter 8

Steve adjusts the breast-collar on Bucky’s chest, buckling the straps that connect it to the saddle and making sure it lies flat. The leather is studded with small silver stars, and another strap runs from the girth to Bucky’s hindquarters, crossing over them and behind in a lattice, saddlebags hanging heavy on either side of the bedroll tucked behind the saddle. The bridle is next, an intricate redesign of his usual with straps that make an “x” over Bucky’s face, Steve’s crest in the middle of his forehead. Bucky balks slightly when Steve goes to put the bridle on, jerking his head out of reach, but Steve strokes him and waits until finally Bucky’s head comes down and he dips it into the bridle. 

Steve pats his neck, scratching under his mane. “Yeah, I know.” He steps back, running his eyes over Bucky. “Look at you.”

Bucky arches his neck, prancing in place. Under the saddle is the long formal saddlecloth Steve had put on, dyed Mar-vell’s red, white, and blue colors with an embroidered edge. Resplendent in his kingdom’s colors, black leather and silver stars against his snowy coat, Bucky looks every inch a royal steed.

Bucky bobs his head, pawing at the ground in anticipation, and Steve gathers up his reins, leading him out into the crisp morning air, the sun just cresting the horizon.

Their first outing is for a patrol of their new northern border, a chance to visit the villages now a part of the kingdom and make sure all is well after rumors of skirmishes. They anticipate a few week's journey, the border a two-day ride from the castle.

The others are waiting outside and Steve swings up onto Bucky, nudging him forward as the rest fall into formation. They ride through the fields and into the woods, peaceful quiet descending on the group. Bucky walks briskly on the path, ears pricked forwards and hooves thudding softly on the earth, the rich smells of the woods tickling Steve's nose. 

His knights fan out around them, Sam riding point on Redwing and Natasha and Clint bickering behind them, Peggy beside Steve on her sensible mare Angie. Steve lets himself relax into the serenity, the creak of leather and the chatter of his knights the only sounds in the forest beside the occasional bird call. Dappled sunlight filters through the trees, warming the back of Steve’s neck, and he takes a deep breath, a smile pulling at his mouth.

“What are you looking so pleased about?” Peggy asks, quirking a smile his way. Her brown curls are braided back intricately, lips stained with color and tunic perfectly creased over her breeches. Her striking bi-colored mare plods alongside Bucky calmly, neither horse concerned with the other. 

“Nothing,” Steve replies. “I’m just happy to be out of the castle, is all.”

“Oh please. Like you haven’t been neglecting all your duties to spend time with your new horse,” Peggy teases. She’s one of the few people who never hesitates to call Steve out, status and rank be damned.

Steve rolls his eyes in a very un-princely manner. “I haven’t been _ neglecting _all my duties.” Peggy knows better than anyone how hard he works for the kingdom. “I’ve just been busy. It’s nice to, you know, be away for a bit. Not so many people expecting things of me.”

Peggy’s face softens. “I know, Steve. And you’ve done an amazing job with...Bucky.” She shoots him a look that says exactly what she thinks about naming his horse after his dead lover’s nickname. They’ve had this discussion before.

Steve pats Bucky’s shoulder. “He’s the one who did all the work. I just showed him a bit of kindness, is all.”

“I think you did a bit more than that.” Peggy gives him a soft smile. “You saved him.”

Bucky turns his head slightly, one blue eye looking back at him, and Steve has the feeling he’s agreeing.

They ride until dusk falls, then make camp, tying and feeding the horses and laying out their bedrolls around the fire. Clint shoots a couple rabbits that they cook over the coals, chatting easily as the night grows dark around them. Finally, they settle down to sleep, trading off watch. Steve wriggles into a comfortable position on the hard earth, head pillowed on his saddlebags, and drifts off to sleep.

He wakes to whispers, and looks up to find Bucky standing over him.

He freezes. He’s acutely aware of how easily Bucky could trample him, the memory of Pierce’s death still fresh in his mind. He blinks up at Bucky, taking in his calm expression, ears flopped lazily to the sides. The rope that had been around his neck, tied to the tree – they tried to tie his halter and he’d made it clear that wasn’t happening – is trailing free, like he’d somehow undone the knot. 

Steve sits up cautiously, glancing over to the source of the whispers. Sam and Nat are huddled on the other side of the fire, staring at Bucky with no small amount of panic.

“Um,” Steve says. “What’s going on?” He slowly stands, grasping the rope around Bucky’s neck. Bucky eyes him like he’s not sure what Steve is doing and doesn’t like it, eyes glinting in the low firelight.

“Your demon horse undid his tie and tried to murder you,” Sam hisses.

“I don’t think he was going to hurt me,” Steve says doubtfully. He’d been scared at first, given the situation, but Bucky looked far from murderous staring down at him. 

“Then why was he standing over you?” Sam fires back, voice still pitched low so as not to wake the others. “We tried to take him back without waking you, but he made it clear he’d kill us if we so much as got near him.”

Steve grimaces. Bucky really is a one-person horse. Perhaps he just wanted to be close to Steve? It’s not unheard of for horses to seek out their humans for companionship. 

He rubs his face. “I’ll go put him back.” He starts to walk, but Bucky plants his feet and flattens his ears, expression mulish. 

“Come on.” Steve tugs a little on the rope and clicks his tongue.

Bucky _ does _ look murderous now. Steve sighs and looks over at Sam and Nat. Sam gives him a look that says _ see what I told you? _Nat crosses her arms, looking contemplative.

“Come on, please,” Steve begs Bucky, exhausted from being woken up in the middle of the night. “I just want some sleep. Can you just be a normal horse for once?”

The look Bucky gives him can only be described as _ offended. _Then, as if making up his mind, he starts to walk. Steve is too tired to question it, and just leads him back to his tree, tying the rope into a complicated knot. 

“There,” he says tiredly, patting Bucky on the shoulder. “That should stay put. Get some sleep.”

He stumbles back to his bedroll and falls back asleep in seconds. 

In the morning, he opens his eyes to see Bucky above him.

* * *

* * *

The first village they reach is small, nothing more than a row of small cottages and fields full of harvest. The people come outside to watch as they ride in, murmuring among themselves, children tucked behind their mother’s skirts and peeking out with wide eyes. The group comes to a halt and Steve dismounts, striding forward to clasp the hand of the village leader in greeting. He quickly explains what they’re doing here and watches the leader’s face smooth in relief. He imagines that visits from nobility in the past have not heralded good things, and understands the fear on the villagers’ faces, the hardened gazes the women cast on them as they shield their children with their bodies. These people have not been untouched by war.

“Come,” the village leader, Jonas, says. “Make yourselves comfortable. We have little to offer, but we would be honored to have you.”

“Thank you,” Steve replies sincerely. “I know times have been hard, so rest assured my knights will make every effort not to inconvenience you. We only ask shelter for the night and rest for our horses.”

“Of course, your highness.”

“Please, call me Steve.”

Jonas raises an eyebrow. “Your highness,” he repeats.

Steve sighs, and follows when he beckons, his knights trailing behind them. They’re dispersed between several homes, horses untacked and penned, bellies filled and hands warmed over fires. Steve finds himself in Jonas’ home, where he does his best to try and help with the cooking – to Jonas’ wife’s aghast protestations at the thought – and entertains the two children by showing them pieces of gold. He intends to leave the family a substantial sum for their hospitality, and in reparation for the violence visited upon them as a consequence of the war.

He sleeps deeply, bedroll set upon the earthen floor, and takes breakfast with the family before venturing out to check on Bucky. When he gets to the pen, however, there is no Bucky to be found, even though the gate is latched. Trying not to worry, as he knows Bucky’s tendency to escape, Steve wanders the village, stopping to talk with the people and assess what is needed to see them through the winter.

It’s the sound of children’s laughter that draws him. Curious, he rounds the corner of a house and stops dead, fear spiraling up his spine; for he has found Bucky, but he’s not alone. 

What must be a half-dozen children surround him, one sitting underneath his belly and one on his back, another with arms wrapped around his head and feet dangling in the air. As Steve watches, Bucky raises his head, lifting the child higher to squeals of delight, then carefully lowers it again, setting the child on its feet. 

“My turn, my turn!” another child cries, as Bucky gives the last a nudge with his nose. Panicked, Steve approaches slowly, wary of spooking Bucky and causing him to hurt one of the children. Shock and fear mingle in his gut, heart racing loudly in his ears. 

“Hey there,” Steve says in a low voice, causing the children to look over at him, “I need you to slowly move away from the horse.”

“Why?” the child on his back trills, sitting up straight and causing Steve’s heart to lurch in his chest. Bucky, however, remains still, looking at Steve with such a placid expression that his fear slowly morphs into confusion. Steve knows how much Bucky hates other people, how dangerous he is, so why is he letting these children clamber all over him?

“Because it’s not safe,” he says to the child’s question, gaze still locked with Bucky’s.

“He won’t hurt us,” an older child says stubbornly, chin jutted out. “He likes us.”

To his surprise, Steve thinks he’s right. Bucky dips his head and nudges the child with a soft whuff, nibbling at his hair as if to say _ yes, I do like you. _

It doesn’t change the fact that Bucky is dangerous, and a moment of panic could mean injury or worse to the fragile children swarming him like flies. Steve sighs and cautiously approaches, letting Bucky sniff him and moving slowly as he begins the process of removing the children and gently shooing them away. There are protests, and more than a few wobbly lips and shining eyes, but Steve hardens his heart and sends them scampering back to their mothers, waving back at Bucky forlornly. Bucky, for his part, nickers after them with equal sadness.

Steve rests his forehead against Bucky’s, tangling a hand in his mane. “What am I going to do with you?” he asks despairingly.

Bucky huffs and nudges at his chest, lips unerringly seeking out the apple in his pocket. Steve chuckles and draws back to give it to him, ruffling his forelock.

“Well, now we know you like children,” he says, scratching behind a furred ear. “I guess I should be grateful you didn’t trample them.”

Bucky snorts, jerking his head up as if offended at the very thought. Steve laughs and steps to the side, grabbing a handful of mane before swinging himself up onto Bucky’s bare back. 

“Come on.” He clicks his tongue. “Let’s get you back before the others come looking. And see if we can’t find a way to keep you contained for good, you escape artist.”

Bucky shakes, rattling Steve’s teeth, before agreeably trotting back toward his pen.

They leave the village in the morning, and though Steve found Bucky happily grazing in the fields and not in his pen where he’d been put the night before, he just sighed and threw his hands up. 

It’s not like Bucky runs away, anyway. No, he seems to just enjoy outsmarting everything they try to keep him in one place. Gates, knots, stakes, and hobbles are only a minor inconvenience for him, and as the journey continues Steve stops even trying to keep him contained, simply letting him roam free. Bucky never goes far, preferring to stick close to Steve, especially when they’re not in a village, and gradually the others stop worrying as well. _ Demon horse, _Sam says, but it’s said almost fondly, and Steve catches him sneaking Bucky a sugar cube when he thinks Steve’s not watching. Bucky still maintains a wary distrust of anyone that isn’t Steve, but he’s softening, becoming less fearful every day. 

And children? It seems Bucky’s distrust ceases to exist where they are concerned. In every village, Bucky always manages to find the children and make them love him. Steve runs ragged trying to keep them away from Bucky, afraid for their safety, but Bucky continues to evade him, growing craftier each time. He lets the children braid flowers into his mane and tail; lets them crawl under his legs and poke and prod like a patient mother and not an unstable stallion; lets them put their little arms around his neck and lift each other onto his back, where he steps slowly around as if walking on eggshells, careful of his fragile burden. 

Steve’s never seen anything like it. 

“He is a soul-spirit,” a village elder tells him, eyes crinkled against the sun as he watches the children swarm Bucky, calm in the face of Steve’s panic. “A protector, sent from the gods. Look at his eyes – blue, like the sea and sky. Have no fear, young Prince. He will not harm the children.”

“A protector,” Steve murmurs. Gooseflesh rises on his skin, a chill running through him even though the day is warm and sunny. Looking at Bucky, his dappled hide gleaming in the sun, head bowed gracefully to allow a young girl to stroke his face, Steve finds himself hesitating to push the old man’s words away. _ Soul-spirit. _ There is something different about Bucky, something that is otherworldly. He is too intelligent for an animal; too keen. When Steve looks into his strange blue eyes, he has the sense that there is _ someone _looking back.

The thought doesn’t scare him. Whatever Bucky is, it doesn’t matter. That he has chosen Steve – that matters. Somehow, Steve has earned his trust, and his loyalty, and it is a greater honor than any that’s come before.


	9. Chapter 9

They get their first taste of battle near one of the north-most villages, the people thin and hardened from the constant attacks by Hydra. They ride into town just as a raid is happening, Hydra knights making off with precious grain and stocks.

“Stop!” Steve shouts, and urges Bucky forward, twirling his sword. Hydra’s men, unprepared for challenge, flee in the face of their force, and Steve does his best to salvage the grain he can, helping the distrustful villagers.

As they journey further north, there are more skirmishes, and Bucky proves his mettle, surefooted and swift under Steve. He responds to the barest thought, as if he and Steve are one, as if they share a soul and a mind, the same blood rushing through their veins. Steve is untouchable, trusting Bucky to keep him safe – and that he does, reacting to threats before Steve registers them, wheeling and striking out at any who would dare to harm him. 

Soon, the word must spread, for the Hydra knights start targeting him, deliberately singling him out from the pack to try their luck two-on-one, three-on-one, _ four _-on-one, as many as they can, their swords and lances aimed at Bucky in an attempt to slay the legendary Winter Stallion. 

None succeed.

Steve and his knights win skirmishes along the northern border without trouble, have beaten back opportunistic Hydra forces looking to push their luck, but they should have known that Hydra does not give up that easily. Hydra does not follow the same code of honor as Mar-vell, and Steve finds, much too late, that he has underestimated them.

They’re camped overnight on the banks of a stream only a day from home, bones aching from the long weeks of riding and fighting. The horses are untacked except for bridles, Bucky left untied and Sam sitting next to him on watch, pretending he’s not slipping him handfuls of grain. Steve falls asleep to the soft rush of water and the sound of Bucky’s breathing, even and slow.

He wakes to warm breath on his face and a nudge to his arm. Cracking his eyes open, he finds Bucky above him, the moonlight shining on his pale coat. Bucky nudges his arm again and rumbles a low, nervous noise, ears flicking to and fro. Instantly, Steve is on high alert, grasping the hilt of his sword as he looks around.

Sam is on the edge of the clearing, body tense as he locks eyes with Steve, giving him a meaningful look. The forest is silent – too silent – and Steve slowly clambers to his feet, tightening his grip on his sword. Bucky paws at the ground next to him, body angled sideways, and Steve grabs a handful of mane and swings himself up onto his back, urging him forward. They pace slowly around the clearing, Bucky’s nostrils flaring and body taut with tension, Sam peering out into the darkness, but all is still and silent. Steve opens his mouth, about to suggest they sit tight and wait it out, when all at once the silence shatters like glass.

Later, he will remember it only in pieces, in flashes of sight and sound: The silver glint of a sword, flashing toward Bucky’s heart, and the sound of his scream as he rears, the blade carving a ragged path across his shoulder and down the left side of his chest. Blood stains the earth red, spreading across Bucky’s pale coat as more men pour from the forest, more blades finding their mark. Bucky stumbles, and Steve shouts as he lashes out with his sword, trying to fend off their attackers, but there are too many.

He is being pulled from Bucky’s back, struggling and shouting, and his knights are too far away, fighting against a vast ocean of enemies that have purposefully separated them. He hears Sam cry out, sees Peggy fighting against three men, and knows what he must do.

“Retreat!” he shouts, even as he watches ropes whirl around Bucky’s head, watches him stumble and whinny in panic. “Retreat!”

He watches as his knights realize that they cannot reach him.

“No,” he sees Natasha mouth, face twisted with more emotion than he has ever seen, one hand fisted in Widow’s mane.

“Leave me!” he shouts, and cannot help but feel that he has been here before, has seen this scene play out – but this time it is him making the sacrifice. “Go! Get help!”

A bolt grazes Clint’s arm, making him drop his bow. Natasha’s face abruptly closes off, and Steve knows she has decided. He watches her turn Widow around, hears the command to retreat repeated, locks eyes one more time with Sam before he, too, tears himself away.

Steve stops fighting, and lets himself be bound, teeth gritted against the pain in his heart.

* * *

* * *

They walk for a long time, the sun arcing up over the horizon. Steve’s wrists are bound in front of him with rope, a Hydra knight holding the long lead. Bucky is further ahead, surrounded by knights, ropes lashed about him and blood dripping down his foreleg as he limps steadily onwards.

Eventually they reach an encampment of some sort, well within the Mar-vell border. Steve’s blood boils at the fact that Hydra have employed such underhanded tactics, have knowingly trespassed and set upon them in their sleep. Perhaps they think that with Steve out of the way, Mar-vell will be left weak, for if Hydra could not beat them in fair battle, than perhaps an unfair one might end in their favor. But Steve knows better. Mar-vell is far from weak, even without him. Hydra will rue the day they set foot in their lands.

Steve is forced to his knees in the dirt, strong hands on his shoulders, and a man steps forward from the throng of knights, grey robes brushing the ground. He’s short, with a round face and spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, beady eyes glittering with undisguised glee as they alight on…Bucky?

The sudden scuffle makes Steve turn his head. Bucky has been tied between two trees, ropes holding his head still, and he’s bucking and twisting as more ropes snake towards him, coiling around his left foreleg and snapping against his skin with a sharp crack as the knights shout. His eyes are wide and rolling, fixed on the short man with unmitigated terror, and then the knights grab hold of the ropes and yank.

“Stop it!” Steve screams. “Don’t hurt him!”

The ropes pull tight, Bucky thrashing and whinnying in panic. The loop around his left foreleg tightens, yanking it upwards, forcing him to balance on three legs and straining his mutilated shoulder, blood streaming to the ground. The bindings cut into his face, his eyes wild and white-rimmed above them. He hobbles, unable to escape, Steve screaming in fury as he struggles.

He sees red. Everything goes distant as he lunges to his feet, grabbing the sword from the soldier’s scabbard next to him and dispatching him in one swift blow. The blade sings in his hands, his heartbeat loud in his ears._ Parry, thrust, slice. _He’s overwhelmed, no match for the sheer number of Hydra soldiers, and he cries out as a sword pierces his side, another slicing through the meat of his thigh. He stumbles, falls, and a blow to the head sends him reeling, the world going blurry and dark.

Then the hands on him are torn away, the sound of hooves ringing against the earth, a bugling scream. Bucky is there, impossibly, flashing hooves and fury, ropes trailing from his bridle and blood streaming down his foreleg, white coat slashed and stained red. He slides to a stop next to Steve and then _ kneels, _dropping to a foreleg. Steve stumbles towards him and manages to swing his leg over, clutching onto Bucky’s mane as he stands once more. 

Bucky rears and starts to run, charging through the Hydra soldiers as Steve swings his sword with the last of his strength, knocking them aside. The last thing he sees is the shocked face of the short man and then they are free, galloping out of the camp with Hydra soldiers in hot pursuit, the wind whipping at Steve’s hair. Bucky gallops faster than Steve had thought possible, the ground rushing past them at dizzying speed. 

The Hydra soldiers fall behind, and the sword slips from Steve’s numb fingers, a hand going to his side in a futile attempt to stop the blood slowly soaking his tunic. He curls over Bucky’s neck, fingers twined in his mane, kept astride only by muscle memory and Bucky’s smooth stride, which slows slightly as Steve lists on his back. He feels himself slump further forwards, head against Bucky’s neck, and then darkness swallows him up.

* * *

* * *

[Bucky runs. His shoulder aches and throbs, cuts burning with every stretch of his muscles. Blood is drying tacky on his skin, his and Steve’s and that of soldiers’ mingling into a canvas of red. He can feel Steve’s limp form jostling with every movement, even though he’s galloping as smoothly as possible, every muscle attuned to balancing Steve on his back. His breath is coming harshly, sweat soaking his chest and muscles burning, exhaustion pervading every cell. But he can’t stop. He has to keep going, or Steve will die.

He repeats it, over and over, until the words become a blur in his mind, nothing existing except for pain and exhaustion. It could be hours or days before he sees the white spires of the castle rising ahead, a beacon of safety. He doesn’t slow his pace, clattering through the gates and into the citadel, heedless of the people that jump out of his way. He stumbles to a stop in front of the steps, sides heaving and body trembling, legs weak underneath him. 

“It’s Prince Steven!” comes the shout, and someone approaches but Bucky wheels away, teeth snapping closed on empty air. He will not let anyone touch Steve. 

“Whoa, Bucky, it’s just me. Whoa there. Easy.” 

Bucky’s vision clears, and he sees Sam standing there, hands raised. _ Sam. _His head drops, relief pouring through him. Steve will be okay. Sam is here. 

He did it. He saved Steve.

The instant Steve is pulled from his back, Bucky’s legs buckle, sending him crashing down to the ground. He slumps onto his right side, head coming to rest on the stones, and closes his eyes. 

_ He saved Steve. _

“I need some help over here!”

Hands touch his head and he startles, jerking. 

“Easy,” comes Natasha's voice, and she rests a hand on his neck. “It’s alright.” 

He goes lax again, breaths harsh and labored. Natasha unbuckles his bridle and unknots the ropes, sliding them off and pulling his head into her lap. Rapid footsteps sound and someone slides to a stop next to him, falling to their knees. There are hands on his body and he thrashes weakly again, panic worming its way through the exhaustion.

“Settle,” Natasha says soothingly, stroking his neck. “No one’s going to hurt you, big guy. It’s just Bruce. Easy now. Just hang in there.”

He relaxes, falling still as inquisitive hands prod at his shoulder, his leg, a wet cloth moving through the blood and grime. Natasha keeps stroking his neck, murmuring reassurances as he closes his eyes and drifts, letting firm hands rub him down. The cleaning and suturing of his shoulder makes him flinch and struggle for an instant before succumbing again, Natasha’s voice penetrating the haze of pain.

“You have to keep fighting, big guy. You saved Steve’s life. You can’t give up now. He needs you.”

The pungent scent of herbs reaches his nose as they’re packed into his sutured shoulder and smeared over the gashes that litter his body. His breaths are slowing, sweat drying on his skin and cooling him rapidly, legs aching with fluid.

“Someone get me a blanket!” Natasha orders, and rough hands begin to rub at his legs with cloth, pressing hard against the muscle. There’s a commotion around him, voices overlapping, and a blanket settles over him, hands continuing to rub life into his limbs. He shivers, and Natasha strokes his neck, voice tight with strain.

“Where’s Erskine?”

“He’s with the Prince,” someone replies nearby. 

“When he’s done, direct him here.”

“He’ll surely want to rest after healing the Prince-”

“I don’t care.” Natasha’s voice is sharp. “Get him here, or this horse is never getting up again. You want to tell the Prince that?”

A pause.

“I shall fetch him right away, my lady.” 

Footsteps hurry away. He doesn’t know how long he lays there, drifting in and out, before a new presence appears, the man’s voice low and accented. 

“How is Steve?” Natasha asks.

“He is resting now, but he will make a full recovery. It is thanks to his horse that he is alive, I hear.”

“Yes. And right now it is he who will die if we don’t do something.”

“I do not know if I have the strength to heal him, my lady, but I will do what I can.”

Gentle hands come to rest on his shoulder, and then there is a too-familiar tingle, traveling through his body, racing up his spine with burning fire, and the man jerks back with a gasp as Bucky thrashes, panicked.

_ Magic. _

It touches something deep within him, a terror just on the edge of memory; an echo of screams, the smell of blood.

He scrabbles on the stone, getting his feet underneath him and pushing, staggering upwards on three legs. His head pulses with the aftermath of the magic and for a moment, he doesn’t know where he is, _ who _he is, everything a blur of sound and color and screams. 

“Whoa! Easy, big guy. Easy.” 

He half-rears, left leg held off the ground, muscles trembling with strain. Natasha keeps talking, hands spread in front of her, and slowly Bucky settles, the world coming back in focus. He breathes harshly, letting Natasha edge closer and stroke a careful hand down his face.

“Erskine. What happened?” she asks, voice low and calm.

Behind her, a grey-haired man shakes his head, staring at Bucky in confusion. “There is magic on him. Dark magic. I could feel it, it...”

“What?”

Erskine’s lips press together. “I have only felt magic like that one other time. In Arnim Zola’s work on Schmidt.”

Bucky flinches at the name, and Natasha narrows her eyes. “Zola?” She turns to Erskine. “What spell would he put on a horse?”

“Not a spell. A curse. This is magic of the darkest sort.” Erskine shakes his head. “What it does, I have no idea. It repelled me immediately. Curses can only be broken according to the rules of the one who cast them, and it is never simple. Whatever this curse is, I doubt we will ever break it.”

“Is it harming him?”

Erskine shrugs. “That, I do not know. It does not appear to be. But he felt it, when my magic met the curse, and he was afraid. Whatever purpose Zola had in cursing him, I don’t think it was pleasant.”

“Can you still heal him?”

“I can try.” Erskine steps forwards, and Bucky pins his ears, leaning away. Erskine stops. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, my friend,” he says, extending a hand. “I seek to heal.”

Bucky eyes him warily, but stands still as he approaches, flinching as the hand settles on his cheek. No pain comes, and he exhales in relief, muscles losing their tension.

“See? I won’t prod at the curse,” Erskine assures. His hands trail down Bucky’s neck, to his shoulder, and his fingers splay gently over the deep wounds. He closes his eyes, murmuring softly, and there is another tingle of magic, only no pain accompanies it. Instead, warmth spreads through his shoulder, washing away some of the pain. 

Erskine steps back, sighing. His shoulders bow with exhaustion.

“That’s the best I can do. I cannot heal it completely, but this should help.”

“Thank you,” Natasha says. 

Bucky whuffs, nudging Erskine with his nose. _ Thank you. _

Erskine smiles. “My pleasure. Our Steven has a very special protector, I think.”

“Yes,” Natasha says. “Yes, he does.”

* * *

* * *

“Come on,” Natasha says, as Clint secures the blanket around Bucky. She holds the end of the rope wrapped around his neck, clicking her tongue as she pulls gently. “Let’s get you inside.”

Bucky takes a limping step forwards, pain shooting up his shoulder. Clint walks beside him, a hand on his withers as they make the slow trek towards the stables. Bucky’s shoulder aches fiercely, blanket rubbing against his cuts, but his legs hold under him thanks to Erskine’s help. 

It’s a relief when they make it to his stall, and Bucky takes a long drink from his water bucket to slake his thirst before he settles in for the night, folding his legs to lie in the thick straw. It seems everyone has taken it upon themselves to sit vigil with him, switching out at various points during the night, and he sleeps in fitful bursts, aching and exhausted. In the morning the horse physician, Bruce, changes his bandages, and he eats heartily under Sam’s supervision.

“Steve’s doing alright,” Sam tells him, crossing his arms on the edge of the stall. “He’s been trying to get out of bed already to come see you. I had to threaten to knock him out to keep him still. Luckily, his mother is watching him like a hawk.”

Bucky pops his head over the stall, nudging Sam’s arm. Sam scratches him behind an ear, eyes warmer than they’ve ever been towards him.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, “for saving Steve’s life. I was wrong about you.”

Bucky whickers in response, chewing on Sam’s sleeve. 

_Scene art by [MsPooslie ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21324355/chapters/50785621#workskin)_(Click link for art post)

Sam rolls his eyes. “Of course, you’re still an asshole.” His smile is fond, and he reaches up to rub Bucky’s forehead with a calloused hand. “But I think you’re growing on me, demon-horse.”

Bucky nips him, and Sam yelps.

“See? What was that for? I swear you know what I’m saying.” Sam points a finger at him. “I stand by demon-horse. I’m not calling you Bucky. That’s a dumb name for a horse.”

“It was his friend’s name.” Natasha appears from nowhere, stopping in front of his stall.

“What?”

“Steve’s friend. Lover, though that wasn’t common knowledge. James Barnes. Bucky.”

“_ That _James Barnes? The one Steve never talks about?”

“That one,” Natasha confirms. She reaches out to scratch Bucky under the chin. “Bucky was his nickname.”

“Steve named his _ horse _after his dead lover?” Sam asks incredulously.

Natasha quells Sam with a look. 

“I’m just saying,” Sam says, hands raised in apology. “I mean, I said it as a joke, calling him ‘Bucky’ the first time. I didn’t know.”

“Like you said, he doesn’t talk about it.” Natasha unlocks the stall door, slipping inside. She withdraws a sugar cube, offering it to Bucky before checking on his wounds. 

“What is with that brand?” Sam asks, studying his shoulder. “That’s our emblem, but we don’t brand our horses.” He pauses. “At least I don’t think we do. Do we?”

Natasha shakes her head. “We don’t. We never have.” She traces the brand with her finger. Bucky remembers getting it, remembers white-hot pain and the smell of burning flesh, remembers struggling against his bonds as the poker descended.

“Why would Hydra brand their horse with Mar-vell’s emblem? Unless they weren’t the ones who did it. We don’t know where he came from.”

“I don’t know,” Natasha replies, stroking Bucky’s neck almost absentmindedly. “But wherever he came from, I’m glad he’s here now.”

Bucky turns his head to nudge her arm, whuffing softly. _ Me too, _ he thinks. _ Me too. _


	10. Chapter 10

#  **Part III**

** **

[“I’ve got it, Nat. I’m not a total invalid.” Steve’s voice is sharp and irritated as it cuts through the air, the shuffling sound of his walk making Bucky’s ears prick up. He limps to the front of his stall, nickering in anticipation as Steve comes into view, leaning on Natasha. His eyes light up when he sees Bucky and he hobbles faster, collapsing into the stall door and hastily unlatching it as Natasha tries to steady him before stepping back to give them privacy. He yanks the door open and falls forward, Bucky stretching out his neck to catch him, and his arms wind around Bucky’s neck, fingers twining in his mane as Bucky nickers and presses his face into his chest, joy and relief mingling in a heady rush. Steve’s hands clench and unclench in his mane, an exhale of relief loosing from his chest as he clutches at Bucky, pulling his head up to press their foreheads together, sword-calloused hands smoothing over his face. 

They stand there for a long moment, reveling in each other’s safety, leaning against each other to share their limited strength. Then Steve pulls back and they take a minute to assess the other, Steve’s eyes raking over Bucky’s shoulder and leg. He keeps Bucky’s head cradled between his hands, occasionally moving them to scratch under his chin and stroke his nose, to rub against the whorl of hair between his eyes. Bucky drinks him in, cataloguing the lump of bandages under Steve’s tunic and trouser leg, the stiff way he holds his leg and the lingering tang of blood. But he is alive, blue eyes soft and sparkling, and that is enough.

“You saved my life,” Steve murmurs, reaching out to brush the bandages covering Bucky’s shoulder, eyes alight with something like awe. 

Bucky whickers, low and rumbling, and nudges Steve, lipping at his shirt. _ Of course I did, _he wants to say. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for Steve.

Steve chuckles, and then throws his arms around Bucky, careful of their injuries, burying his face in Bucky’s mane. Bucky curves his neck around Steve, hugging him back as best he can, and if it is somehow familiar, a prickle of magic along his spine, then no one has to know but him.]

Scene Art by [LiquidLightz](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21343024)(click on link for AO3 art post)

* * *

* * *

“Alright. Come on. We can do this.” Steve braces a hand on Bucky’s withers, lead clutched in sweaty fingers, and takes a hobbling step forward, clicking his tongue. Bucky follows with his own limping step, huffing a breath.

“There we go,” Steve says breathlessly, taking another hop forward. His left leg throbs, flesh still knitting together despite Erskine’s healing, and his side is a burning ache of pain that leaves him sucking in shallow breaths. He needs to move, though, needs to stretch his muscles and ease his restless spirit and above all, needs to help Bucky, because he owes him. Bucky’s shoulder is healing slowly but steadily, but he more so than Steve needs to stretch his legs or risk stocking up his healthy legs from standing in his stall too long.

Slowly, he and Bucky limp out into the sunshine, both stopping to bask in the golden warmth and breathe in the smell of fresh air. Steve slips a sugar cube out of his pocket and holds it out for Bucky to lip up, whiskers tickling his palm. 

“Ready?” he asks, and Bucky bobs his head, crunching loudly. Steve laughs and leads him on with a click of his tongue, both of them easing carefully in a broad circle around the field. They stop often, catching their breath in mutual misery, Steve’s jaw aching from clenching his teeth. His breath whistles through his nose, head spinning lightly, and the sun that felt so good before is now sweltering, sweat trickling down the back of his neck. 

“Let’s take a break,” he suggests, and none-too-gracefully collapses to the ground, draping the lead rope across his lap as Bucky lowers his head and starts to mouth at the grass. Steve slowly slumps until he’s flat on his back, trusting Bucky not to step on him, and closes his eyes against the piercing sun, the grass tickling his exposed skin. 

“Steven Grant Rogers, what in the world do you think you’re doing?”

Steve jerks awake at the sharp voice, blinking in disorientation. There’s something blocking his vision, something large and grey and…oh. Bucky.

Bucky cranes his neck around to peer at Steve, ears flicking irritably. The source of the sharp voice makes itself known as a shadow that looms over Steve, and he looks up to see his mother standing with arms crossed, scowling down at him. 

“Hi Ma,” Steve says weakly, still unsure as to what’s going on. He tries to sit up and groans at the twinge of his side, hands flailing out until they grab onto the nearest solid thing – which just so happens to be Bucky’s head, helpfully nudging him up. 

He grips the top of Bucky’s neck and uses it to pull himself up, hopping and hissing in pain as he sways, head spinning. Bucky shifts closer and Steve slumps against his uninjured side, patting him weakly in thanks before glancing at his mother. 

“What were you doing out here?” she asks, voice a mixture of worry and exasperation. “No one’s seen you all morning. I saw you laying under Bucky and thought…” She inhales sharply, shaking her head.

“Oh.” Steve feels his face twist. “Ma, I’m sorry. I was just taking a walk with Bucky. I only meant to lay down a minute, I swear. I must have drifted off.”

She sighs. “Just tell someone next time. You shouldn’t even be out here in the first place. You’re still healing.”

“I’m fine. See?” Steve goes to take a step on his own and stumbles, wincing in pain and grabbing onto Bucky again, who nudges Steve as if to steady him. 

His mother raises an eyebrow. 

“Fine.” Steve huffs a sigh. “But I can’t stay in the castle all day. Besides, Bucky needs me.”

Her face softens, and she reaches out to stroke Bucky’s nose, rubbing between his eyes. “I know. Just be careful. Now, you both should be inside resting. Can you get back, or do I have to get one of your knights to carry you?”

“I can get back,” Steve says indignantly, trying not to sound like a scolded child. He braces his hand on Bucky’s withers, coiling the lead rope up, and clicks his tongue, resuming their stilted hobble back to the stables as his mother shakes her head but follows on Bucky’s other side, a hand on his neck, supporting him all the way there. 

* * *

* * *

It becomes routine, Steve walking with Bucky every morning, both of them regaining their strength. Flesh knits together and muscles gone lax with rest firm up again, their strides growing longer and smoother. Bruce proclaims Bucky’s shoulder healed, a ragged scar stretching from the top of it and curving down his chest, the stiffness slowly abating day by day. Steve’s injuries are similarly pronounced healed by Erskine, pink scar tissue marring his side and thigh in a mirror of Bucky’s.

They’re out in the fields, Bucky prancing with restless energy and Steve himself feeling the itch to move, green grass stretching temptingly in front of them. The sky is blue and cloudless, the air fresh and clear, and Steve grins as Bucky turns sideways to him, pawing the ground with a hoof.

“Yeah?” he asks, fingers already twitching in anticipation. 

Bucky neighs and paws the ground again, head bobbing. Steve laughs and throws the lead over his neck, fastening it to his halter with hasty motions before grabbing onto Bucky’s withers and vaulting up onto his bare back. He exhales as he settles, the _ rightness _of it sinking into his bones. This, this is where he belongs. 

He leans forward, clutching his makeshift reins, and nudges Bucky with his legs. Bucky leaps forward, powerful muscles bunching as he throws himself into a gallop. The wind whips at Steve’s hair, his fingers tangling in Bucky’s mane, and he laughs out loud in pure exhilaration as Bucky stretches out, hooves churning up the ground, the world blurring past impossibly fast. He can feel Bucky’s joy matching his, singing through his body as if they are one, and all at once it feels as if they are flying, as swift and free as an eagle. 

It seems as if they run for an eternity, reveling in their freedom, before Steve notes Bucky’s harsh breathing, the sweat staining his shoulders, and deepens his seat, trying to slow him. Bucky shakes his head, surging forward obstinately, before dropping to a rocking canter and then a trot, and then, finally, to a walk. His head droops and he snorts, ears flopping, sides heaving softly under Steve’s legs. Steve rubs a hand along his neck, setting his windblown mane to rights, and turns them toward home.

He takes extra care to rub down Bucky’s legs when they get back, smoothing liniment onto Bucky’s shoulder and stretching the leg out. Bucky nibbles at his collar and puts up with his ministrations peevishly, obviously wanting to be back out under the open sky. 

“I know,” Steve soothes him, pressing a kiss between his eyes and scritching behind an ear, “I want to run too. You’re probably feeling cooped up, huh?”

Bucky snorts, bumping his nose into Steve’s chest, and he takes that as his cue to keep scratching, finding Bucky’s favorite spots. 

“We’re almost ready,” he says, more to himself than anything. “Soon. Soon we’ll go out after Hydra, and they’ll never be able to hurt you again. I swear.”

He presses his head against Bucky’s, sealing his vow, and Bucky puffs a warm breath into the space between them, standing steady and still. 

* * *

* * *

It is with grim determination that they prepare their things, weapons honed to deadly sharpness and cold rage burning in their chests. After many days of searching, Erskine has been able to scry an approximate location for the last remaining Hydra cell, and it chills Steve’s blood to learn that Zola is with it. Zola, who had cost Bucky – _ his _Bucky, his beloved – his life. 

“Move out,” Steve barks, and as one his knights mount their horses, chainmail gleaming in the dull sunlight that peeks from behind stormy clouds. With a swift leap, Steve settles in the saddle, a hand twining in Bucky’s dark mane as he nudges him forward. Bucky is steady under him as if he too feels the tension, all prancing and cavorting gone from his mind. 

It’s less than a day before they reach the stronghold, an old abandoned castle now crawling with black-cloaked soldiers. They take cover in a nearby gully while Natasha and Peggy scout ahead, swift and silent. They return a candle-mark later with information, with weaknesses, and together the knights form a plan, sketching out attack formations in the soft earth.

They attack at daybreak the next morning, encircling the stronghold and sweeping down in a thunder of hooves. The guards, caught unawares, fall under their swords quickly, blood staining the stones. A few, upon the sight of Steve and Bucky charging towards them, cloaked in fog like an avenging angel, beg for their lives.

Steve grants them a quick death.

He is the first to reach the inner sanctum, the walls crumbling and ivy growing between the cracks, the very air thick and dead. A vast silence settles over the space, the sounds of battle outside faint, and as Bucky strides through the arched doorway Steve sees a figure standing in the middle of the great hall, his back turned to them.

“Show yourself!” he calls, voice ringing on the stones.

The figure turns with a swish of grey robes, and the blood rushes from Steve’s face.

“_You,” _he snarls, recognizing the round face and spectacles, the beady eyes that had bored into him as they escaped not so long ago. The pieces click into place.

_ Zola. _

“Me.” Zola spreads his arms with a twisted smile. “How nice to see an old friend.”

Beneath Steve, Bucky is coiled with tension, trembling almost imperceptibly. Steve dismounts, clutching his sword, and walks forward.

“There’s nowhere to go,” he says, fingers whitening on the hilt of his sword. “It’s over.”

Zola hums, eyes raking over Bucky. “Is it, though?” he queries, and the tone of his voice sends chills down Steve’s spine.

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you ever wonder–” Zola takes a step forward “–how we created him?” 

Steve glances behind him, where Zola is looking, to see Bucky’s ears flattened in hatred, eyes glinting dangerously.

“What do you mean?” he demands, returning his attention to Zola.

“Well, surely you don’t think he’s just a horse…oh.” Zola chuckles. “Oh, I see. You do.”

“What are you talking about?” 

Zola shakes his head, tutting. “Steven, Steven, Steven. I thought you were smarter than this. Haven’t you wondered how we managed to train him to do such great things?”

“You _ hurt _him,” Steve grits out from between clenched teeth.

“A necessary evil.” Zola shrugs. “He would not cooperate. But no, _ think. _ Haven’t you wondered how he is so intelligent, so uncanny _ , _ so… _ human_?”

“What are you saying?” Steve voice comes out rough, barely a whisper, as something awful and sickening sinks its claws into his chest.

Zola swirls a hand through the air, sparks trailing from his fingertips. “Magic can do so much,” he muses. “Not your precious good magic, with its rules, no…but _ curses. _ You can change one’s very soul, their very mind…why, you can even make a person forget that they are a person. You can remake them into something else. Something _ inhuman._”

The world spins. There’s a ringing in his ears, growing louder. Horror grips his throat in a vice, the air rushing from his lungs.

“No,” he whispers. "You're lying."

"Am I?" Zola says, and the memories are trickling in now, every oddity and question left unanswered, and there is only one conclusion, one horrifying revelation. 

Steve raises his sword. “Lift it," he snarls. "Undo what you did.”

Zola simply chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I cannot. Only he can lift the curse.”

Steve turns as if in a dream, muscles stiff and unyielding, and his eyes seek out Bucky, beseeching, begging it not to be true. But there is matching horror in Bucky’s eyes, wide with understanding, with comprehension that should not be possible. His eyes lock with Steve’s, startlingly blue and _human, _and the world slows down to a crawl.

He turns, every moment taking a lifetime. Zola is grinning a coward’s grin, self-assured and gleeful, and there is confidence in his eyes, the knowledge that he is in control of the situation, a twisted puppet-master of his own creation.

He’s still smiling when the blade pierces his heart.

The world rushes onwards as Zola falls. He stares upwards where he lies, shock rapidly painting his features as red spreads across the grey of his robes, pooling onto the flagstones.

“Hail...Hydra,” he gurgles, and then falls still, eyes glassy and fixed.

The sudden silence is deafening.

The sword slips from Steve’s hand and clatters on the floor.

“Did you know?” he asks numbly.

When no response comes, he glances over and meets Bucky’s eyes, wide and fearful.

“Did you know?” he repeats. “Did you know you were human?”

After a moment, Bucky shakes his head.

Steve lets out a breath, a sharp sob escaping.

“Gods,” he says, rocking on his heels. “Oh gods.” And then he is rushing forwards, heedless of Bucky flinching back, to rip off the saddle, to slip the bridle from his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says, as if that will ever be enough. “I’m so sorry.”

Bucky nickers, nudging him with his nose, but Steve cannot bear to take his comfort, not when he has wronged him so badly. _ Bucky. _Even that is wrong. What right had he to name him, when he already belonged to himself? When he already had a name, a life, a family? When he has treated him as an animal, when all along he was anything but. 

And now he has killed the only person who can tell them how to remove the curse.

He sinks to his knees, head in his hands, as his world crumbles to dust


	11. Chapter 11

[The world is a swirl of confusion and color as Bucky reels in shock, mind racing.

He is human.

_ He _is human.

He is _ human. _

There’s a buzzing in his ears, and someone is talking to him, asking him something, and he tries to focus past the numb horror flooding his senses.

“Bucky. _ Bucky.” _

It’s Sam, and he meets his eyes, willing him to make sense of this. 

“Can you understand me?”

He nods, and watches as Sam’s eyes go wide, his face paling.

“Oh gods,” he says, and glances over at where Steve is still crumpled on the ground, Natasha and Peggy attempting to console him. “He was telling the truth. You’re human.”

Bucky shakes his head frantically, as if maybe by denying it, he can make it not true. Zola must have lied…right?

But in his heart, he knows it is true. He knows he has always been different than other horses, has carried the taint of magic with him. _ A curse, _ Erskine had said. Zola’s work. 

His head pounds. Pain arcs across his spine, flickers of magic gripping at his soul. He can feel it now, the curse, pulsing in time with his heart, like a bolt of lightning in his mind that erases and erases and erases, creating nothing but blank whiteness where once there had been color and life. He had a _ life. _ He was a _ person, _and Zola had stolen that from him.

“We’re going to figure this out,” Sam says, but he looks rattled, and Bucky remembers Zola’s words, his confidence – _ only he can break the curse. _

If he hasn’t broken it by now, there is no hope. He is doomed to forever wonder who he was. Did someone love him? Did he love someone in return? Are they grieving him even now, wondering what happened to him?

He looks at Steve and calls to him, begging for the reassurance he has always provided. He is the only person Bucky trusts, for even without knowing he had treated him kindly, had spoken to him like perhaps he could understand. 

Steve turns, and his face is a portrait of agony, eyes filled with a guilt Bucky does not understand.

“Do you know how to break it?” he asks. “The curse?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“Erskine will know,” he says, and there’s desperation in his voice.

“Steve…” Natasha touches his shoulder. “Erskine said it was unlikely he could break it. That there are rules to curses–” 

“You _ knew _?” Steve shoots to his feet, anger pouring off him in waves. “You knew he was cursed?”

“We didn’t know what it was,” Natasha tries, glancing guiltily at Bucky. “Erskine said it wasn’t harming him–” 

“You call _ this _ not harming him?” Steve throws an arm out, encompassing Bucky. “He’s been trapped like this for _ years. _He didn’t even know he was human!”

“I know. I’m sorry. We-we should have told you. We didn’t want to worry you when you were trying to heal, and then…it was just easier.”

“You’re damn right you should have told me,” Steve spits. He sheathes his sword, pushing past Natasha roughly. “We’re leaving.”

Bucky turns to him, but Steve doesn’t look at him, vaulting up onto Peggy’s mare instead. There is a bit of shuffling, Natasha and Clint ending up riding together, and Bucky is left riderless, adrift without a purpose. Sam pulls alongside him on Redwing, hesitating before offering him a pitying smile.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get back to the castle.”

The group turns, trotting away, and Bucky follows.

* * *

* * *

The way home seems to take forever, Bucky walking in a numb haze. Eventually the castle spires come into view, and then they are walking through the gates, so familiar and yet at once foreign. So much has changed that he almost expects the castle to look different. People pass them by, unconcerned and unknowing that his world has been turned upside down, the very foundations shaken and cracked.

Erskine appears, shuffling down the steps as fast as he can, and Steve meets him halfway, the two of them huddled in conference, voices low. Erskine looks over at Bucky, then shakes his head, and Steve’s shoulders slump before tightening once more.

As Steve makes his way over Bucky nickers, gravitating to him automatically. Steve comes to a stop in front of him, hands clasped behind his back and face carved from stone, ignoring Bucky’s attempt to catch his eye.

“Erskine will search for a way to break it,” he says flatly, voice devoid of emotion. “In the meantime, no one will touch you again. I give you my word.”

Bucky nudges him with his nose, uncomprehending. Steve steps back, flinching away from the contact, and hurt lodges in Bucky’s chest like a knife, a cold fear starting to kindle.

“You’re free,” Steve says, and his voice cracks slightly, betraying him. “I’m sorry for everything.”

_ No. _Bucky wishes he could speak, to tell Steve he has nothing to apologize for. That he doesn’t want to be free, not from Steve. 

He nickers, shaking his head, and Steve’s eyes shine with emotion.

“You’re free!” he shouts. “Don’t you understand? You’re free! Go on, get out of here!”

Bucky shakes his head, nudging Steve with his nose. Steve pushes him away roughly, face crumpled with anger.

“Go!” he shouts. 

“Steve,” Natasha tries, taking him by the elbow. Steve throws her off and turns, walking away. Bucky’s heart jumps in his chest. He whinnies and trots after Steve, reaching out to snag his sleeve with his teeth and pull.

Steve whirls, throwing his arms up, and Bucky flinches back before he can think, releasing Steve’s shirt. Steve turns again and walks away, disappearing through the archway to the castle, and Bucky whinnies, high and mournful, a wordless plea. 

Steve doesn’t reappear.

Bucky cries again, the sound echoing in the silence. 

“Bucky.” Natasha carefully steps closer, forehead creased in sadness. Bucky looks at her, wishing he could speak, could beg Steve to stay. He doesn’t know how to live without him. 

She reaches out, and Bucky pulls back, shaking his head before he, too, flees. He slips into the stables and finds his stall, curling up in the hay and closing his eyes. Perhaps, he thinks, this is all a terrible dream. Perhaps he will wake and Steve will be here again, smiling at him, and all will be right in the world.

But when he wakes, there is no Steve. He is alone.]

* * *

* * *

“You have to do something,” Natasha pleads as Steve does his best to ignore her, pretending to read a report. “He’s barely eating, he won’t leave his stall, he won’t let anyone near him.”

“You’re keeping him in a stall?” Steve questions, voice tight with barely restrained anger.

“He’s keeping himself in a stall,” Natasha retorts. “He’s a horse, what did you want to do, bring him into the castle?”

“He’s a _ person,” _Steve snarls.

“He’s a _ horse!” _Natasha tugs at her hair in frustration. “He doesn’t remember being a person, Steve. You heard Zola. He doesn’t remember anything from before. This is all he knows. You were the first person to show him kindness. And then you left him.”

“I _ trained _ him. I _ rode _him.”

“I don’t think you did anything he didn’t want you to do. He wanted to do it, Steve. For _ you.” _

“Because he didn’t know better!” Steve slams his hand on the desk. “Damnit Natasha, you said it yourself. I was the first person to show him kindness. He didn’t know any better. That doesn’t make it okay.”

Natasha is silent for a moment. “That doesn’t matter,” she finally says. “Whatever you are or aren’t guilty of, he needs you. Don’t do this to him.”

Steve stands abruptly, chair pushing back with a screech. “We’re done talking.”

“Steve–” 

“Leave me.”

Natasha sighs, then turns away, closing the door quietly behind her. Steve slumps like a puppet with its strings cut, sitting down heavily on his chair and resting his head in his hands. He can’t stop the guilt that consumes him, every moment he hadn’t known flashing by his eyes in a litany of _wrong wrong wrong. _Every time Bucky hadn’t acted like a horse, every time he should have known something was off. Why hadn’t he ever questioned it? He’d known Bucky wasn’t normal, and still he’d brushed it off, so focused on _training _him like an animal. Doesn’t matter that Bucky had let him – like he’d told Natasha, he didn’t know any better. It’s not Bucky’s fault, it’s Steve’s. 

Bucky may be upset now, but it will fade. It’s better this way. Now there’s no chance of him manipulating Bucky, coercing him into anything. In time, he’ll understand. In time, he’ll resent Steve, and that’s the way it should be.

It doesn’t matter that it feels like ripping his own heart out. It’s what he deserves.

* * *

* * *

He sneaks out of the castle in the early morning, feet carrying him down the well-remembered path as fog beads on his skin. On the edge of a gully there is a tree, branches old and weathered by time. It’s roots are gnarled and twisted, but the shelter they create is lined with moss, soft and springy. When Steve puts his hand out, he thinks he can almost feel the imprint of a body, where it had lain so long ago.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, dashing away a tear that trickles down his cheek. “You’d be so disappointed in me, Bucky. I’ve done something unforgivable. I was selfish, and ignorant, and-and I couldn’t save you. I know that. But it felt like I’d gotten a second chance. I thought I was doing the right thing, and it turns out…I wasn’t. I wasn’t at all.”

His tears fall onto the moss, disappearing as if they never existed. He takes a shuddering breath and rocks back on his heels, scrubbing at his face.

“I think it’s time I accept that you’re gone,” he whispers, voice lost in the rustle of leaves. “I loved you, and you died. You’re not coming back. Not now, not ever.”

He takes another shaky breath, squaring his shoulders as the acceptance settles deep into his heart. It hurts, like a knife in his chest, ribcage constricting around a grief too large to bear, but there is something cleansing about it. For so long, he has buried his grief, has pushed it to the back of his mind and locked his lips around the secrets of his heart. But now, he feels ready. It’s time to let Bucky go.

He stands, briefly closing his eyes and drinking in the silence of the forest.

Too silent.

He only has time to draw his sword before they strike.

* * *

* * *

[Raised voices draw Bucky from a restless sleep, and he stands, poking his head out the stall as people rush past, their panic tainting the air. He whinnies as he sees Sam approaching, and Sam slides to a stop by his stall, face lined with worry.

“There’s been a bandit attack,” he says breathlessly. “Steve snuck out alone, no one knew he was gone until Erskine got a vision…“

Bucky is already pushing his way out of the stall and racing down the aisle, incoming knights jumping out of his way. He bursts into the courtyard and spots Natasha tightening Widow’s saddle, swords crossed at her back. She glances over, catching sight of him, and her mouth firms. 

Bucky skids to a stop in front of her, gaze pleading, and when she looks into his eyes, it feels like she can see all the way to his soul.

“The Valley of the Dead,” she says, voice tight and thick. “A few miles East.”

He turns, shoes sparking on the cobblestones, and hears her call after him, her voice drifting on the wind. 

_ Hurry. _

He barrels through the castle gates and gallops into the woods, weaving around trees as branches whip at his face. After long minutes he enters a gully, scrambling over the rocky earth, and his stride lengthens as he navigates unerringly, the very trees seeming to call to him.

_ I know this place, _ he thinks suddenly.

There’s a flash in his mind’s eye, silver steel and blood overlaid with reality in which he hears the sounds of battle up ahead, smells the bitter tang of blood and earth, and knows Steve is there. 

_ The back of Steve’s head is matted with blood, his eyes hazy and unfocused. Bucky cradles his head as he carefully lowers him into the shelter created by the roots of the tree above them. _

_ “It’s going to be alright,” he says desperately, bloody palms cupping Steve’s face. “You’re going to be alright.” _

Bucky bursts into the clearing, eyes immediately searching out Steve. He finds him fending off a half-dozen bandits, tunic spattered with blood and hair gleaming in the sun, so familiar Bucky’s heart skips. Steve looks up, and their eyes meet.

_ “Bucky?” Steve slurs, squinting at him in confusion. _

_ “Shh,” Bucky says, smoothing his hair back with trembling fingers. “Stay down.” He presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead, then leans his own against it, noses brushing, fighting back the hot tears that threaten to escape. _ It’s not fair, _ he thinks. He wishes they had more time. _

_ “I love you,” he whispers, and pulls back, drinking in Steve’s features one last time, before he stands, knuckles white around his sword. He takes a deep breath, pushing all his love for Steve deep in his heart, letting it give him strength, and then slips away, back toward the sounds of battle. _

The men surrounding Steve fall under Bucky’s hooves, their screams ringing in his ears. He hears hoofbeats behind him, signaling that help has arrived, but it barely registers as more scenes play before his eyes, like ghosts come back to haunt him, memories unspooling rapidly.

_ Bucky’s heart races in his chest as he runs, Morita at his right and Jones just behind, the others following as Bucky leads them as far away as he can, until his legs shake and his breath scrapes at his throat and they find themselves penned in by cliff walls, stopping at last and turning to face the Hydra soldiers. _

_ He raises his chin proudly even as they surrender, for there is only one victory he cares about. _

_ They will never find Steve. _

Steve is staring at Bucky, both of them breathing heavily. The battle is dying around them, and for a moment all goes quiet as Bucky meets those sky-blue eyes that he knows so well, eyes that he had never truly forgotten even when he forgot himself. 

“You saved me,” Steve breathes, and Bucky thinks _ I will always save you _and then his whole body is awash with sensation, tingling and burning as magic swirls around him and the curse lifts, memory flooding in like sunlight to a barren land. 

He is lying on the forest floor, blinking open his eyes to see Steve above him, shock and awe on his face. Bucky raises a hand and sees pale human skin, fingers that wiggle when he moves them, and looks up at Steve as something painful and beautiful unfurls in his chest.

“Bucky,” Steve chokes out, falling to his knees and reaching out, a hand brushing Bucky’s cheek. Bucky leans into the contact, tears filling his eyes as he speaks for the first time in three years.

_ “Steve.” _

Steve sobs and then he is clutching Bucky to him, holding him so tightly there is nothing on earth that could part them. Bucky buries his face in Steve’s shoulder and cries for all he has lost and all he has gained, for the fate that lead him back to Steve again. 

Steve pulls back just enough to press their foreheads together, hands cupping Bucky’s cheeks as if he is something precious and fragile, as if he might vanish into smoke at any moment. Bucky raises his own hands, pale and shaking, and grips Steve’s wrists, holding on tight.

“It’s you,” Steve says, wondering and broken all at once. “It’s always been you.”

“Steve,” Bucky says again like a prayer, like it’s the only word he knows. “Steve.”]

Scene Art by [LiquidLightz ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21343201/)(click link for AO3 art post)


	12. Chapter 12

The chair underneath him is hard, digging into his thighs uncomfortably, and a slight breeze blows through the cracked window, the first tinges of dawn just spreading their fingers into the room and illuminating the still figure in the bed. The sheets are drawn up over Bucky’s chest, one arm freed and lying outstretched, reaching toward Steve even in sleep; his dark hair – long now, longer than it’s ever been, than it had been when Steve had last seen him – spills across the pillow, face slack except for the slight downturn of his lips. His chest rises and falls steadily as Steve watches. 

Every breath feels like a miracle. That Bucky is here, alive, is a miracle. He’s been here all along and Steve never knew – though perhaps that isn’t quite true. Some part of him, deep down, in the place that can only be called magic, had always known. That small spark, that ember, niggling in the back of his mind, sputtering to life as his hand reached out to save instead of harm, when he said _ your name is Bucky _and stared into eyes that he recognized, heart and soul. Perhaps, he thinks, this was his penance. To save Bucky as Bucky had saved him so many times before – yet not to know. 

He wants to apologize – for not seeing, for not understanding, for treating him like the animal he never was. For although Bucky carried no memories, he was always himself. Some part of him had survived, fighting its way back to Steve, protecting him as best he could. He had been battered and beaten, transformed and erased, and yet still, they could not break him. They could not destroy him.

Steve exhales and leans back in the chair, scrubbing a hand over his face as the memories of the day before flicker through his mind. It had taken a while for things to become clear, for Steve to be able to explain that this was Bucky, _ his _Bucky, while Bucky clung to him as if he would never let go. Steve had clung back, unwilling to let him out of reach, wrapping Bucky in a cloak and refusing to let anyone else touch him. Bucky was exhausted, clarity quickly disappearing as confusion and fear set in, the onslaught of new memories and the transformation overwhelming his mind. It had taken Steve keeping up a litany of soothing words as they rode back to the castle for Bucky to calm, and he’d barely tolerated being dressed or Erskine’s examination of him and Steve both, a hand fisted in Steve’s tunic and eyes wide and unsettled. 

Exhausted, Erskine had said, but unharmed. However, he warned of the impact on Bucky’s mind, the damage two years under the curse had wrought. There was still some part of Bucky that was _ horse, _that would never fully go away; that he could still access.

_ What does that mean? _Steve had asked. 

Erskine had spared a glance at Bucky, who stared back with a wary gaze. _ It means he no longer possesses one form, one spirit. He has become...something wholly unique. His soul is human, but his spirit is both human and horse. If he wishes, he could possess either form. _

Bucky had frowned slightly, but made no comment – he hadn’t spoken since saying Steve’s name – and Erskine had left them with promises to return the next day. Bucky had fallen asleep not long after, clutching Steve’s hand. It had all happened so quickly, and Steve has no idea what to do when Bucky wakes. There’s so much to say, so many things to talk about, and yet Steve hasn’t the faintest idea where to start. Bucky has been a horse for two years, captured and abused by Hydra, without any memory of his past. It’s enough to change anyone for good. 

Whoever he is, Steve decides, he loves him. That will never change. Even if Bucky no longer feels the same way, even if he wants nothing to do with him, Steve will always love him with every fiber of his being. His personality had shone through even in another form, and Steve had fallen in love with _ that _him – a different kind of love, perhaps, but love nonetheless. He has loved Bucky in every way, in every shape and form and in every time. 

Bucky had come to Steve’s rescue, despite Steve pushing him away, to the same place he’d given his life to save him, and he had _ remembered. _He’d broken the curse on his own. And that, thinks Steve, is love in return. 

A hand twitches on the bed. Steve’s heart gives a lurch as Bucky’s eyes crack open, roving wildly before settling on Steve. He reaches out and Steve clasps his hand, holding it tightly. Bucky exhales, relaxing into the pillows.

“Hey,” Steve says, voice choked. “How are you feeling?”

Bucky opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Weird,” he finally croaks, lips shaping the word carefully as if speaking is foreign to him. “I…I remember…” 

He seems to struggle for a moment, making a frustrated sound, and Steve reaches out with his free hand to cup Bucky’s cheek, thumb stroking over the soft skin. 

“Hey,” he says. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

Bucky scowls, but his eyes when they meet Steve’s are soft, filled with a warmth and love that takes Steve’s breath away.

“You,” he says, voice close to a whisper. “It was…always…you.”

Steve lets out a breath that’s close to a sob and leans forward to press his forehead to Bucky’s, breathing in his warm scent. Bucky’s hand finds his jaw, fingertips digging in behind his ear, and he nuzzles at Steve’s face until their lips meet and they are kissing, sweet and soft and dizzying all at once. Bucky’s lips are the same, even after all these years, and Steve would know him anywhere in the way he kisses, the curve of his lips fitting perfectly against Steve’s like they were made for him. Bucky makes a sound, desperate and overwhelmed, and Steve’s fingers find their way into his hair, threading through the tangled strands. He doesn’t know how long they kiss – it could be an eternity, for all he knows and cares; the world could descend into madness and hellfire and he would not stop kissing Bucky – but eventually they part, breathing each other’s air as their hands map each other’s bodies, so different now and yet the same. 

Steve runs his hands over Bucky’s arms, gentling him as he would before, when he was unknown to him, and feels Bucky’s fingers trace the lines of his face as if to reassure himself that Steve is real, finding the new crinkles at the corners of his eyes and pressing the pad of a thumb to a scar on his brow. At some point, Steve has climbed fully into the bed, and they lay on their sides facing each other, the only sound their mingled breaths.

Steve presses a thumb to the divot in Bucky’s chin and finds it fits the same, like a key in a lock. There are new scars on Bucky’s body, a new _ spirit _that lives inside him, but in all the ways that count, he is the same. He is Steve’s.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, their faces inches apart, his fingers slowly tracing up and down Bucky’s arm, feeling the ridges of scars under his tunic. The brand of a star, so clear now – Mar-vell’s star. Even Hydra had known he was never theirs.

“No,” Bucky whispers back, with a small shake of his head. “You saved me.”

“I should’ve known.” Guilt clenches at Steve’s heart. “I should’ve looked harder for you, I should have realized, I shouldn’t have treated you like an _ animal–” _

Bucky cuts him off with a kiss. “No,” he says again, and his eyes are full of sorrow. “It wasn’t your fault.” His speech is getting smoother, tongue remembering its purpose. “You _ saved _me.”

“You saved me first.”

Bucky smiles, a small quirk of his lips. “Yes,” he agrees, “and I would do it again, and again, as many times as it took, because I love you.”

A tear slips down Steve’s cheek and Bucky swipes it away with a brush of his hand. “I never stopped loving you,” Steve admits. “Never.”

“I know,” Bucky says, and then he kisses him again, and it feels like coming home.


	13. Chapter 13

#  **Epilogue**

** **

[Change comes slowly and then all at once, creeping across the castle like winter sunlight. Bucky grows strong again, and the kingdom welcomes him back with open arms – if a little baffled by the circumstances. There are good days and bad days, for sometimes Bucky wakes not knowing who he is, not knowing in what form his soul is caged, and sometimes he wakes out of night terrors screaming and thrashing, unable to be soothed. Steve knows some of the things that haunt his dreams, some of the stories behind the scars that litter his skin, but some things Bucky keeps tucked away, afraid of burdening Steve with the knowledge. 

It is still strange, sometimes, to look down and see hands, to twist his tongue into human words. He had spent so long relying on animal instinct, silenced and cut off from his own memories, that to inhabit his body and his brain feels foreign. He does not know what to do with himself, but he knows his purpose no matter his form – protect Steve. 

It is Natasha who approaches him, canny eyes seeing straight into his restless soul. It is she who puts a sword in his hand and hefts her own, ruthless, in the early mornings in far off corners of the practice fields, until his sword once again is an extension of his arm; until he feels again that he is human.

It is Sam who sits with him in the middle of the night, passing flasks of wine back and forth as they shake and sweat from the things they see in their minds. Sam tells him about his Riley, about the arrow that ended his life too soon, and Bucky tells Sam the things he cannot tell Steve, the horrors he has seen and endured. It is Sam who never tiptoes around Bucky’s second form, constantly teasing and offering him sugar cubes and apples, and it is Sam who makes Bucky remember how to laugh.

It is Sarah who gives Bucky her blessing, hands warm and soft around his own, eyes glistening with unshed tears, and pledges the kingdom to helping find those cursed by Zola. 

They are no longer troubled by Hydra, though the kingdom still stands, small and weak, most of its people fled to better fortune. Zola and Pierce are dead, those who hurt him gone for good, and there is finally peace throughout the land – strange, Bucky thinks, that in the end, it rested on his fate.

He has not yet tried to shift forms again. Part of him is scared that he may never be able to change back again, no matter what Erskine says. But another part wants to shift, for even though most of his time as a horse had been full of pain and suffering, there was freedom, too. The feeling of carrying Steve on his back, protecting him against all evil – he wants that back. 

He tries to broach the topic to Steve, but Steve is adamantly opposed. He still hasn’t forgiven himself for treating him like a horse, no matter how many times Bucky tells him that he _ was _ a horse, that Steve had saved him and given him a purpose, that he _ chose _to help him.

But Bucky knows Steve’s stubbornness, and he also knows that the only way to change his mind is to make him confront it head-on.

It’s a perfect day as they set out for a picnic, walking through the meadow hand in hand. The sky is cloudless, bees trundling past and alighting on the myriad of flowers that dot the landscape, and they set the blanket down at the top of a small rise, pulling food from the baskets Steve had insisted on carrying in one hand. The sun warms Bucky’s face, a light breeze ruffling his hair, and he closes his eyes, tipping his face up toward the sky.

When he looks over, Steve is smiling at him, eyes soft and fond, and Bucky feels his heart catch in his chest. He reaches out a hand, palm up.

“I want to show you something.”

Steve grasps his hand, palm warm and calloused, and Bucky pulls him to his feet.

“Promise me you won’t be angry,” he says, searching Steve’s eyes. “Just…let me do this.”

Steve nods, brow furrowed in confusion, and stays put as Bucky backs away, hand slipping free. He takes a deep breath, keeping his eyes on Steve for strength, and searches for the magic in his core, the ball of lightning that trembles there.

Between one moment and the next, his form shudders and shifts, and he finds himself staring out of different eyes. Steve’s expression is shocked, eyes wide with turbulent emotion, and Bucky takes a step forward, nudging him with his nose.

“Buck?” Steve whispers. He seems to war with himself before his hands curl automatically around Bucky’s face, thumbs stroking under his eyes. 

Bucky nickers, and then pulls back, presenting his side to Steve. 

Steve’s breath hitches. “No,” he says, face screwed up. “No, Buck, I can’t.” 

Bucky nickers again, craning his head around to nudge Steve’s arm. 

Steve hesitates, searching his eyes. “Are you sure?”

Bucky tosses his head, pawing a hoof, and sees Steve’s resistance crumble.

“Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath. “If you…if you want me to.”

He steps forward, smoothing a tentative hand over Bucky’s neck, then gathers himself and leaps astride, settling on Bucky’s back like he was made to live there.

Bucky rears, forcing Steve to grab tight, and then surges forward, hooves churning up the earth. He feels Steve relax on his back, feels him start to move with him, and then there is a breathless huff of laughter, whipped away by the wind.

Steve’s fingers tangle in his mane and Bucky stretches out, muscles singing, matching pace with the eagle soaring high above. And in that moment, he feels…

Free.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read, left kudos, and commented! Here's a bonus chapter with some original sketches I did while coming up with this idea (the one not pictured here is in the banner). My artists encouraged me to post them, so enjoy!

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[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185435383@N06/49034289598/in/dateposted-public/)

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[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185435383@N06/49034289528/in/dateposted-public/)

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Hawkeye

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for The Winter Stallion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21324355) by [MsPooslie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsPooslie/pseuds/MsPooslie)
  * [Art: You Saved Me!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21343024) by [LiquidLightz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiquidLightz/pseuds/LiquidLightz)
  * [Art: Reunited](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21343201) by [LiquidLightz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiquidLightz/pseuds/LiquidLightz)


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